Dancing with Time

Kitchen shenanigans

'Forgive me if I stumble and fall, for I know not how to love too well. I am clumsy, and my words do not form as I wish, so let me kiss you instead and let my lips paint for you all the pictures that my clumsy heart cannot.' - Atticus. 

"Munchkin! What have you done?" Juliet's mother shrieked, nearly tripping over a rogue flour sack as she burst into the kitchen. A scene of sugary chaos greeted her. Flour dusted the air like a light snowfall, clinging to every surface. Overturned mixing bowls spilled their contents – a watery puddle of milk mingling with stray chocolate chips and a yolky splatter of escaped eggs. In the epicenter of this sugary disaster stood twelve-year-old Juliet. Her usual bouncy red-heart pajamas were now a canvas of floury white splotches mirroring the disaster zone around her. Her hair, typically a crown of fiery curls, resembled a white bird's nest after a tussle with a flour sack. A sheepish grin peeked through the flour-dusted mask on her face.

"It's Mother's Day tomorrow!" Juliet chimed, her voice laced with hopeful defiance. "I was making cookies!"

The hopeful defiance quickly dissolved into a grimace as a horrendous burnt-sugar smell assaulted their nostrils. It reeked like a campfire fueled entirely by burnt marshmallows. Juliet, oblivious to the olfactory assault, reached towards the oven, her bare hand poised to grab the smoking hot tray.

"Juliet." Her mother's shriek echoed through the kitchen, sending a flurry of flour motes dancing in the air. Juliet flinched, dropping the tray with a clatter. A whimper escaped her lips as she cradled her singed fingers, tears welling up in her bright green eyes.

"Oh, honey, here, let me see," Juliet's mother cooed, rushing to her side. She gently grasped Juliet's hand, her touch a soothing balm amidst the sugary mayhem. A cool breath fanned across Juliet's throbbing fingers.

"Mom! What about the cookies?" Juliet sniffled, her lower lip jutting out in a dramatic pout. The once-promising cookie dough on the tray was now a misshapen blob of charcoal, a far cry from the anticipated treat.

"Don't worry, Munchkin," her mother said with a smile, reassuringly kissing Juliet's cheek. "We'll make new ones together."

The rhythmic thrum of the car lulled Juliet from her light doze. Her eyes fluttered open, taking in the unfamiliar surroundings. She was back in the car with Paul, her designated driver, a knot of dread tightening in her stomach. He was ferrying her back to her gilded cage – or, legally speaking, her husband, Keith.

The memory – a warm hug of sugar and burnt cookies – brought a nostalgic pang to her heart. It must have been from when her mom did the baking while she watched, mesmerized. Unlike Juliet, baking wasn't a skill she could pull out of a hat. All she wanted was for her mom to wake up so they could recreate that memory, flour, burnt sugar, and all.

A curt response, "Yes sir," drifted from Paul's phone conversation. Juliet could picture the man on the other end without a doubt. Keith had been a relentless shadow these past three days, his calls a constant reminder of the bizarre situation. Their conversations were strained, and there was a monotonous exchange of "fines," a poor substitute for genuine connection.

One could argue Keith was attempting to salvage normalcy, but Juliet couldn't shake the anger at his forced proximity. They were strangers, mismatched puzzle pieces crammed together. Furthermore, the resentment simmered – Keith held the power to dissolve their contract, yet he'd opted for a loveless marriage instead. And now, with a ring on her finger, he feigned concern!

"Paul?" Juliet ventured, her voice soft. He appeared in his mid-thirties, his dirty blonde hair a mess of playful curls. Ember-colored eyes crinkled with a genuine smile, starkly contrasting the tense air. He radiated kindness, making her question how he tolerated Keith for so long.