Flour. Flour everywhere.
Will had been at it for over an hour. His small but perfectly formed kitchen was uncharacteristically unkempt. With the radio on in the background playing a soft, folksy type song, a tall man was whipping the living day lights out of a bowl of cake batter. He had three on the go. He was making a rainbow cake.
He liked to bake. Will didn't have the excuse of him having a stressful job and him needing to find a relief. He just…liked it. Regardless of his little brother calling it "girly". He liked it and that was all there was to it. He was a good cook but a better baker and that was shown in his home. His kitchen was full of all the mod-cons. He'd just bought himself a new set of kitchen knives from Switzerland that were made from medical grade steel. Why? Because it felt fancy.
It was his mother's birthday tomorrow. Though big on family, he wasn't that great at gift giving. He tried, oh did he try but after a while, his family must have been bored with getting books for birthdays. They'd been too polite to say that to his face but it was an occupational hazard. He was a writer, through and through. Books were in his blood. And his mother's come to think of it. Taking a wild stab in the dark, he'd given her vouchers for a spa which were in a sunny yellow envelope on the mantelpiece. With any luck, his mum would take Dash along.
He supposed mum and daughter got along fine but there was some sort of invisible barrier. It was the same between him and his dad but as of late, things were better.
Carefully and slowly, Will spooned the batter into the cake tins. Red, pink and orange in turn. He'd tried his hardest but there were still some stubborn little lumps and air bubbles in the mixture that he knew would pop and extort in the heat. So what? It'd give it a homemade, rustic feel. Slamming the door shut of the oven, he licked the back of the spoon, easily ignoring Granny Dasher's constant warnings about salmonella from eating raw eggs and whatnot. Balls to it.
It was a particularly dull and rainy afternoon, indicative of the autumn to come. Breezy, the rain lashed against the windows and it was a far cry from the warm, comforting feeling inside his small but happy home. As he wiped down the surfaces, it wasn't long before the delicious aroma of cake wafted from the oven and filled the brightly lit kitchen. Will wasn't planning something amazing. He had the idea of whacking on a great load of white icing and tying a ribbon around the cake, with maybe some strawberries on top. He figured he could buy a cake but there was the fun in that?
A knock at the door caught the attention of Dave, his loping and ageing Irish Wolfhound. Shaggy and affectionate, the dog was a dumb as a doornail but absolutely glorious. In lieu of a girlfriend, Will spent his nights with a huge puppy who licked his face and generally ate him out of house and home.
"Dave!" The writer yelled as the dog skidded along the shiny wooden floors and slammed bodily into the front door, causing him to wince. Wiping his hands on a tea towel, he jogged after his pet, his socked feet slipping as he tried to chase him. Pink cheeked and out of breath, he managed to grab a hold of the back of Dave's collar and hold him as his free hand reached for the door. Will didn't get many visitors. It was usually either Mr. Wong from the local Chinese take away or sometimes Mr. Ghosh, from the Indian take away, if he was feeling particularly spicy.
"You get sillier and sillier every single day," he grunted at the huge dog who wagged his tail and jumped up, his large paws on Will's chest as he shifted to hold the dog and grab the door without toppling over backwards. Seeing who it was, his handsome face broke into a smile. "Hey you," he said kindly as he saw his sister. "Come in, come in. You look frozen. I'll pop the kettle on."
