Half Baked Story

As she trots with glee on the wall, I see her. She is carefree and smiling. She is smiling without a camera panning across the garden. There is no one looking and she still puts up a show. I am here, minding my own business, in my own garden. Well, not really because where’s the fun in that? I am minding everyone else’s business and adding it all to my recipe. I am brewing something and it is not a broth. I have this large pan and this large ladle. I lift up the liquid and pour it back down as it bubbles up and boils to perfection.

It isn’t perfect though, it is more or less crude. I watch it sometimes, and sometimes I just let it simmer. I watch her as she tiptoes around my cooking. She is carefree and a little careless too. I am concocting stories and I need some spices. The catch (not the brand of masala) is that I have no spices and must get them myself. Well, she is around me and her heels are on my fence. I am not annoyed, I really like guests. She slips from the walls and falls in my garden. She dusts off herself and now the dust is a part of the recipe. I call it fairy dust because it is extremely rare. I do not know why but this garden is usually empty and so are my hands when I go out to get spices. I had knocked on every door and asked every neighbour, some called me a friend and some closed the door on my nose.

This girl though, she stayed and dusted her hands in my cooking. The story got spicier and she leaned in to smell.

“Careful, you will end up in my stories,” I warned her with a smile.

She took my advice and that’s why this story is half-cooked.

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