Tried and True

Cynthia Watkins thought only of winning as she stood under the hot shower spray till the sweat dripped off the edge of her nose.

After, she stepped out onto the bathmat. With the palm of her hand, she wiped off the steamed mirror over the vanity.

She sighed as her eyes roamed her naked body. Not bad for nearly 50, but getting older sucked. Gravity was a bitch.

 Her phone alarm chimed and she glanced down at the time display. 5:30 a.m..

 Enough contemplating.

 The pie was ready.

Quickly, she threw on her ratty pink bathrobe as she sailed down the stairs. She caught the fresh aroma of the apple pie, she’d made. The scent of cooked granny smith apples mingled with a strong hint of cinnamon. She smiled to herself. She had handpicked the apples herself and had sliced each into perfect wedges; placing each into a frying pan, she’d sautéed them to absolute perfection.

Beneath it all, the strong scent of vanilla hazelnut coffee brewed and ready.

She pulled the pie out. It was perfectly golden, the crosshatching across the top as straight and as flaky as any crust should be.

She’d gotten up early to make it.

Minutes later, cup of coffee in hands, she found herself peering out her kitchen window at the quiet cul-de-sac.

Her gaze then leveled on the elevated bungalow across the street. The kitchen lights were on and she watched Anita Alvaro slip past the window.

Did the bitch really think she was going to win best pie yet again? Cynthia wondered.

Not a chance.

Taking a sip of her coffee, she paused as she saw the side door by Anita’s garage open.

Quick, she put her coffee down, snagged her binoculars off the top of the fridge and expertly focused on the man stepping outside.

Third one this week.

He looked unsteady as he leaned against the door frame. Then she watched as he strolled to the Focus parked by the curb and soon pulled away.

 Her cell buzzed.

 She lowered her glasses.

 Who would call at this hour-?

 She looked out the kitchen window to see Anita on her phone smiling and waving her fingers.

“You’re up,” Anita said when Cynthia answered.

 “Of course I’m up. It’s fair day.”

 “Fair enough,” she said and giggled.

 What would Dave think of his wife now? Cindy wondered. He’d probably roll over in his grave if he knew how many men she’d been fucking.

 Dave. How long since he’d died? Was it three years ago now? He comes home from work, starts up his walkway, hits a patch of ice, slips, hits his head and just never wakes up.

 Certainly a better way to lose a spouse than having him leave you for some big titted college student.

 “What’s up, Anita?”

 “Just wanted to wish you good luck today, Cindy.”

 She pursed her lips. “I don’t need it, thank you very much.”

 She slammed down the phone.

 The nerve of that woman.

 Once they’d been, if not friends exactly, as least neighbourly to each other. And that would have been fine, if the skank hadn’t up and won the best pie contest two years in a row.

 Even the thought of Anita sent her blood boiling.

 Before the tramp had shown up on Splinter Drive, Cynthia had taken home the 1^st Place Best Pie ribbon five years straight. There’d been no stopping her it seemed. Oh, how people raved, how people congratulated her and she remembered how the paper wrote such a beautiful feature on her and her award winning dessert...

This year she vowed to take back her number one position.

 She poured another cup of coffee.

As her pie cooled, she raced upstairs and dressed quickly.

She slipped on a beautiful navy blue, low cut strapless dress, and then shoved her feet into high heels.

After she applied red lipstick, she gave herself a once over.

She looked like a winner.

When she came back downstairs, she poured one more coffee and as she did she spotted the stolen recipe tacked under a magnet on the fridge.

 Once she’d learned from the Fair Committee that the pie this year would be “apple”, Cynthia had simply waited for a day when Anita left her home. When that day came, she immediately marched over there, slipping in through the unlocked garage door. She’d seen men come and go this way – repeat customers and new ones. The door just never seemed to be locked and sure enough it wasn’t.

 Also, as predicted, the door inside the house, remained also unlocked.

 Stupid girl.

 It hadn’t taken long to find Anita’s cookbook either. She found it buried under folded tea towels in the bottom kitchen drawer, a huge picture album spilling with recipes.

 Carefully, using both hands she hauled it out.

‘Alvaro Family Cookbook’ read the index card taped to the hard cover.

She flipped through the mess, hurrying. There was no real organization here. Many pages were loose, some folded, some faded beyond readability. Smudges of food and unknowns smeared many of the pages she flipped through; even the ones tucked in plastic sleeves looked like they’d seen better days.

No time to doddle she reminded herself. She didn’t have much time. Anita was a homebody and rarely went far.

 She flipped until she found a section that seemed to be about pies.

 Luscious Lemon, Perfectly Pumpkin, Blessedly Blueberry, Rascally Raspberry, Succulent Strawberry...

 Good Lord, what names!

 One crumpled page fluttered to the floor.

 She snatched it up and unfolded it.

 Getting only mildly away from the alliteration, she read the title: Orgasmic Apple.

 Darker stains and squished food particles marred the page.

 She shoved it in a pocket and left the house.

 She snapped from her reverie now, threw her cup in the sink and started to bag her pie per contest rules. She glanced at the clock. Almost 7:00. All entries had to be in by 8 a.m. for a 1 o’clock judging.

 Better get moving.

Before she left the house, she found herself drawn to her kitchen window again.

She grabbed her binoculars.

Anita, she saw, had opened the drapes of her large front window. There she stood, just staring out at the street.

She dropped her robe.

Cynthia saw a lean firm body, flawless skin, breasts that didn’t droop.

Anita’s eyes shifted suddenly.

Glared right at her.

Cynthia lowered her glasses. Sweat had broken out on her forehead.

###

 By 1:00 Cynthia stood with other onlookers under a colourful tent as the three judges delicately stabbed pieces of pie and tried each entry.

 Ten pies in all this year.

By 1:30, three winners were declared to wild cheers, whistles and claps that follow such events.

Before the first place ribbon could be passed out, Cynthia shoved her way past the onlookers and charged right at Anita.

She grabbed her by the arm and practically dragged her to the corner of the plank stage.

She heard the spectators and judges gasp but she didn’t give a shit! This was happening!

“What are you doing?” Anita protested.

“Are you sleeping with the judges, too, that it?” she whispered through gritted teeth as her nails bit into her skin. “I know all about your late night visitors!”

“You’re hurting me!”

Anita spun around to the crowd and glared at them.

The crowd seemed hesitant to approach, hesitant to get involved. Very wise of them all, she thought.

She spun back to Anita. “My pies won five years in a row! And you come along and you’re winning now! It’s all rather suspicious.”

She grinned. “My pies are better, you ever think about that?”

“And the fact that you’re spreading your legs has nothing to do with the winning, does it?”

Anita didn’t have the good sense to look aghast. Instead she smiled.

“Did winning all those years make you feel like less of a failure as a wife, Cindy?”

Heat crawled up Cynthia’s cheeks. How dare she!!

“Was it a college student he left you for?”

Anita yanked her arm away from Cynthia’s clutches.

She leaned in closer. “Tell me, when you stole my apple pie recipe, did you think you’d find a secret ingredient? You just needed to see what I do different, that it? Don’t look so surprised, Cindy! I know what you did.”

“There’s no secret ingredient, nothing,” she snapped.

Anita’s mouth turned up at the corners offering Cynthia a very sly smile.

“Be smug!” Cynthia challenged. “We’ll see how smug you’ll be after this town finds out what a conniving bitch you are.”

 Cynthia noted how quiet it had become. She quick-checked over her shoulder. Most of the crowd stood outside the tent now; a few security guards glanced their way but didn’t approach.

 “Dave was my world,” Anita said, her hand gently landing on Cynthia’s elbow, intense blue eyes drilling into her. “Dave fed my need and I fed his hunger.”

Dave had been a large man, Cynthia recalled. Obviously, he’d eaten very well judging by the size of him.

 “I should have salted the walkway that day, before he came home,” she said. “I was baking Dave a pie of all things and I just forgot.”

 Cynthia watched her tremble with grief, a single tear tracking down her cheek.

“My mistake, my mistake. He was a good provider, my David.” She sighed. “With him gone, I decided to...broaden my horizons.”

“By sleeping with as many men as you can?”

“And feeding them, of course.”

 Bitch didn’t even have the couth to deny it! Cynthia thought.

Then, with more strength then Cynthia thought possible from slight Anita, her grip tightened on her elbow and she jerked her in close till their bodies touched.

Cynthia recoiled, feeling Anita’s bony body pressed against hers, and shuddered as instead of hot breath against her ear, she felt only ice cold air.

“The stains are my secret ingredient, Cindy,” she whispered. “The stains on the recipe pages. Shhhhh...”

Cynthia didn’t understand. She tried to pull away but found her legs unable to respond.

“I dig my nails in deep when I orgasm, Cynthia,” Anita said, seductively. She heard her tongue moisten her lips and Cynthia shivered. “Skin and blood is the secret ingredient in all my cooking.”

 Cynthia felt her heart start to race.

“I scrape human tissue from right under my nails,” Anita said, “and bake that right in.”

 The way she’d said human gave Cynthia the strength to finally break away.

 If possible, Anita’s grip on her arm, however, seemed to grow stronger. She winced as she looked around, seeking help.

 She spotted a group of spectators hovering near the tent’s perimeter.

 “Men have such a healthy appetite after sex,” Anita continued. “I like feeding my men. It keeps them loyal and keeps me looking as good as I do.”

 She winked.

Cynthia struggled. She didn’t like this.

“Let go, you bitch!” Her words felt hollow.

Anita’s hand remained firm, locked in place.

Again, Cynthia sought help, preparing herself to scream. The nearby onlookers she recognized as Anita’s lovers. Their cold stares met her panicked one.

 Anita said, “They’re trying to decide if you’re a real threat or not. They’d hate to see me stop feeding them.” 

Even from where she stood she was certain she could see dark circles under glazed eyes. And, was it her imagination or were their bellies a little distended?

“What are you?”

“Just a woman who knows that a way to any man’s heart and soul is through their gut,” she said and patted her flat stomach. “They eat, I stay young looking and trim. Have you seen my body?”

She remembered seeing Anita naked in the front window. Flawless. Not an ounce of flab.

Cynthia grimaced as Anita used her left index finger’s nail to gouge a long furrow down her wrist to the crook of her elbow; rivulets of blood beaded along the deep scratch.

Despite her disgust at watching it happen, at being unable to do anything, Cynthia felt little pain; instead, she felt instantly aroused by it.

Anita released her and then licked her finger.

“Quite tasty,” she said. “Sexual excitement really adds to the flavor, I find.”

 Cynthia’s stomach churned, so she spun away chocking back bile.

 Gripping her bloody arm, she staggered to the parking lot, fumbled for her car keys and finally inside, locked all her car doors.

She squealed out of the lot and onto the main road. In her rear-view, she saw Anita and two of her lovers just watching her go.

Maybe they’d all come for her.

Biting her lip, she considered all she’d learned.

Know thy enemy.

No way was that bitch going to have the last word. No way!

Her ex-husband had been an adult karate instructor and he’d given her lessons for years.

She’d be ready to fight this time.

Not one student in class had yet to beat her.

As she sped home, Cynthia thought only about winning.

THE END