Grind

(My story does not have description of violence and gore, but alludes to them, makes light of them.)

At the intersection, I could go right and head home. But turning left would take me to him. And I wasn’t supposed to go to him. It was part of the deal, that we never saw each other.

Of course, on occasion, I would stop by the bakery. Just to get a look at him. He was the owner, and also the baker, and didn’t work the counter. But if I peeked up and to the left, the doorway to the kitchen was always open. And there he was. Navy blue T-shirt, regardless of the weather (it was hot back by those ovens), a white apron tied around his body. Flour dusted his light brown hair that glinted strands of gold in the harsh light of the overhead fluorescents. Beautiful.

Though the lot was mostly full, I was able to squeeze my red Mercedes into a tight spot in the back row, furthest corner from the shop. I shut the ignition. I opened the car door. Pulled myself out. I wasn’t wearing the right shoes for the weather. Low ankle boots with a chunky heel that went nicely with my gray Chanel suit. Carefully stepping around the icy patches on the blacktop, I finally made it to the front door of the red building. Not bright red like my Mercedes, but muted from years of weather and wear.

It needed a paint job.

I don’t know why they didn’t do it. It wasn’t like the bakery was hurting for money.

I slipped a little, then righted myself. I could smell the bread, the sugar, the cinnamon, stronger and stronger as I got closer to the building. Reached the front door, pulled it open. Got smothered in a cloud of yeasty-sweet fragrance.

The line was long. The line was always long, sometimes out the door. The bakery had a reputation, not just in our small town, but in numerous neighboring towns and counties. People lined up just for a taste… there was something about the baked goods here. People couldn’t put their fingers on it, and Dave, the baker/owner with the gold strands in his hair, never shared his secrets. Not even with his assistants.

I took my spot at the end of the line, brushing imaginary dust off my black wool coat, looked around, watching people eat Dave’s confections. Me? I would just order a latte. I would never eat anything from here. If people only knew what I did for a living… no one would ever guess. From my perfectly highlighted hair to my expensive clothes, I looked like a well-off woman in her early forties, still hanging onto that precious little time I had before the inevitable fillers and face work.

The inside of the bakery was not terribly cozy, at least, not like a coffee shop on a college campus, or one where people stayed for hours, working on their laptops, making the shop an office for their hybrid jobs.

When you walked in, the counter was immediately to the right, running almost the entirety of the wall, stopping at the cash register. It was an old fashioned cash register, the kind that ‘dinged’ every time it was opened for a sale. This was a cash-only place, unusual for our times, yes, but the policy didn’t seem to affect the business. Didn’t hurt that there was a bank next door where customers could hit the ATM.

I heard a woman mumble to her friend, “Wail til you taste coffee cake. You’ve never had anything in your life like it.”

“Why?” her friend said. “What’s so different about it?”

I smiled to myself.

The walls were the same worn red as the outside of the building, and the floor was made of tiny black and white hexagon tiles, arranged in what was supposed to be a pretty pattern. The floor, while clean, was also worn, the black tiles faded and the white tiles gray from years of people walking on them, carrying dirt in from outside. The tables scattered around were tiny. Faux white marble with gold-metal chairs around them. The chairs were not intended to be comfortable, their only padding a thin white cushion seat, discouraging any loitering. People got what they came for, maybe sat down and ate it, maybe left with it. And yet, there was, what looked like, a college student in the back corner, trying to make the most of the uncomfortable setup, his laptop precariously hanging over the edge of the table, books on the chair next to him, his coffee and cake at his elbow. No doubt the discomfort of the chair felt like a rod going up his tailbone.

All sorts of people came here. From the college student to blue collar construction workers in their heavy plaids and tan work boots, to yoga moms trying to jam their strollers into the small space, to the elderly to high schoolers.

Today, there was a mom with a shrieking toddler. She was holding him by the arm, or trying to, as the kid kept trying to pull away and throw himself on the floor. He wore a gray puffy coat with white dinosaurs on it. I could handle a lot — it was part of my job, to handle things most people couldn’t even conceive of and never thought about. But shrieking children?

It made me want to grab my knives.

Go up to one of these entitled mothers, who thought their little darlings took precedence over my peace and quiet, shove the blade up under her chin, and tell her to take her kid the fuck out of here.

But my knives were in the car. Not in my coat pockets. Not hidden in my boot.

While the child still shrieked, I watched with disgust as an overweight man got a chocolate eclair, and even before he fully turned around to leave or sit at a table, shoved half the pastry into his mouth, cream squishing out the sides, filling the corners of his mouth.

“Mmmm… ” he said, the licked the cream off his fingers. He grabbed from the counter the crisp white bag that obviously held more goodies, shoved the other half of the eclair into his mouth as he headed toward the door, and wiped the cream off his lips with his thumb, then shoved the cream into his mouth.

Disgusting.

Judging by the people on the line, which was now out the door, allowing a welcome cold draft into the otherwise stuffy room, they agreed with me.

I would never do that. Not even in private would I eat my food that way. Yes, I deal with mess and horrifying things at my job, but I don’t do messy and horrifying things in public and make everyone else sick from my rude behavior. No, the way I comported myself and dressed, you’d think I was some high powered business woman. Maybe an attorney.

Maybe these patrons wouldn’t be so quick to eat here if they knew I had something to do with it.

I finally reached the front of the line.

“Black coffee?” the young woman working the counter asked.

“Yes,” I said. They know me here.

I looked to my left. To see if I could see Dave. Beautiful and completely in his element.

Covered in my work.

He turned and caught my eye. Held it for a moment, frowning. Then turned away. He was angry that I was here. Why was it so upsetting to him? I watched as he brushed flour-covered hands down the front of his apron, then walk away.

He has a lot of nerve looking down his nose at me.

The woman behind me was asking the counter girl, “What do you put in your baked goods? Is there a secret ingredient? I mean… I’ve just never tasted anything like it.”

The girl just smiled. She didn’t know.

She handed me my coffee in exchange for a ten dollar bill, which I told her, as usual, to keep, then looked around the room. I got lucky. Just as I turned around, a woman and her friend got up from on of the little tables.

One of the workers came by to bus my table and wipe it down for me before I sat down. I grabbed him by the sleeve.

“Tell Dave there'll be another delivery tonight. He’ll have to stay late,” I said.

“Ok… ”

You see, I make the flour that they use here. Or rather, I provide the special ingredient that makes the goods at Dave’s Bakery so damned delectable:

I bring the bones, Dave grinds them up. Sifts them into the flour.

The assassin I worked for had a hit scheduled for tonight. And after he was done, it was my job to clean the space, make it look like it never happened. I get paid a lot of money for this work.

I bring the body back to my workroom. And I begin to cut. Cut the flesh and muscle and sinew away from the bone. Pull the bones out, clean them up, bring them here, to Dave's Bakery. That gives me an easy way to dispose of a lot of body, plus the extra income Dave pays me. So I get paid twice for one job. Not bad.

I don’t know why Dave avoids me. He barely even looks at me when I do a drop-off. We’re doing a service, here. It’s a good thing. Dave helps me dispose of things that are usually hard to dispose of, and the bones make the baked goods taste amazing. Supposedly. I’d never tried one myself. I don’t want to eat a person. I’m a vegan. But what nobody else knew wouldn’t kill them. (Pun intended.)

Why wouldn’t Dave look at me? We were in this together. We should have some sort of sign, a bat signal, something where we don’t have to talk, but at least, acknowledge each other’s presence.

No matter.

I finished my coffee, got up from the table. I had a meeting to get to with the owner of a mom and pop burger joint.

See if they’d be interested in adding a special ingredient to their food.