It's Not My Cake

Marie Michel was an extra batch of cookies. A stringy nest of brown hay within white thread. Despite the hairnet, her hair spilled at the seams. Her eyes were gray and sunken, with a frown etched at the edges.

"All I've got to be, is better than me," she murmured, kneeling her neck over circular cookies with an icing pipette in her fist.

Marie squinted with intensity, that only Claude and Juliette seemed taken aback when the door boomed; Henri Lefever shoved the metallic sheet open, cracking the porcelain squares with its handle.

Orange eyes scanned the kitchen; from the cake baking duo, to the woman icing cookies.

"Henri! Watch the door!" Juliette slammed her measuring cup down; Claude reached for Juliette's shoulder and gave her a pleading look.

Henri was lanky and uniformed in a white apron. His black fingers glistened at angles and handled a cardboard box with ease. He moved hurriedly, with hostility. Marie turned.

Henri shoved his face to her ear.

"Did you tell her."

Seconds passed before Marie acknowledged him; she blinked and stepped back, but — shifting his box — lurched after her with steel.

Marie's eyes went dark and white around the pupils.

"I told no one anything, Henri. Back off my arm."

Ironically, he squeezed harder before letting go. Marie paused.

"Thank you."

"Are you sure no one saw you?" Henri hissed, orange shifting towards the cake baking duo.

"No one will ever know, not if you keep acting suspicious," she said and pushed him to kneel over her batch, "Now shut up. We've never met before."

"...Then how the hell does Julien know about Yves?" Henri said, like a confused child.

Marie snapped her neck to Henri, eyes ablaze. "He knows what?"

"He knows."

"...Then, we'll have to be more careful next time."