Mrs. Waffles sat sideway from me, upright like a news anchor, crossing her legs and smiling. She was smiling at me. She had never sat this close to me, and her toes almost touched my knees.
The air around us smelled of flour and melted butter. It was a warm, sedating scent. She was baking cookies when I knocked. I had come to borrow video games, or so I told her. The cookies were waiting in the oven now.
"Tell me about that bicycle kid again, Luke. What was his name?" She asked.
"Mark. It's Mark Croissant."
On Mark's 18th birthday his stepmom gifted him a new bicycle. Two nights later he rode it straight into a lake, screaming at the top of his lungs. Mark was a good swimmer. Unlike his bike. On a clear day one could see the spokes and handlebar gleaming in the water. I wished I had such a nice bike, but I couldn't swim.
"God. This Croissant kid. Isn't he something," she was grinning again, showing her rows of little teeth. She liked listening to me, liked hearing my voice.
I told her he did these things because he was a troubled rich kid. She nodded in approval. I didn't tell her that Mark later pulled a pocketknife at a girl who refused to go to prom with him. He was suspended and might not attend our graduation.
"Promise me you will never be like Mark. Will you at least promise me that?" She leaned forward to search for something in my eyes.
"I have learned so much from you," she went on speaking. "Matthew never tells me these things. I don't understand. You two were almost twins. Now he has grown a shell around him. I can't get through anymore, you know?"
She nudged even closer and was breathing down my neck. I read her painted toenails. Then she shifted and laid back a little.
"At least you are still friends, after all these years. That's something."
She sounded glad but there was the bitterness in her voice. I looked around. A whole wall made into shelves. A ship in a green bottle, sealed with cork.
"So Matt went fishing with Mr. Waffles? I didn't know he was into that." I asked.
"He was not. It was his father's idea. It will be good for them to go out together sometimes. Should be back any minute now."
Mrs. Waffles turned to the window and raised her chin. A sandy path led onto a small, empty pier. I looked too. The sea was wide. Shadows of clouds grazed upon it.
She looked back at me. "So Luke, tell me who's the cutest girl at your school."
I sat and thought for a while. Mrs. Waffles observed me in some secret joy.
I thought of Jane Cupcake. She was from California and always wore a blue bandana. I thought about asking her for prom, but things didn't work out. I ended up sitting in the back with Matt like clowns.
I told her I had no one in mind.
"Aren't you the picky one! But it might be for the best."
"Why is that, Mrs. Waffles?"
"Because dating someone your own age never makes sense."
"How so?"
"You don't just know love. It's not something we were born with. By the time you learned it, your days have run out."
She edged closer to me again, and put her small hand on my shoulder. "If I were a young man like you, I'd look further. Someone older, someone more experienced."
Her hand travelled upward to measure my throat and jaw. Her hand was cold. I could hear her heart beating like wild. She was suddenly someone I had never met. I wished she could stay with me like this forever.
At that moment something went off in the kitchen.
"My cookies!" She sprang out of the couch. "They have to be so good. You haven't a clue. You must love them." With quick faint steps she vanished out of sight. There came sounds of items knocking each other off.
"Darn it!" Her voice was rather desperate.
I hoped Mrs. Waffles was okay.
I looked around. It wasn't my first time in Matt's home, though I was never alone. I stood by the window and gazed at the sea. Then I turned to the shelves. There were lots of books, and some of them were very old and in odd foreign letters.
Matt once told me most of them belonged to his mom. She was something of an enthusiast. Mr. Waffles on the other hand preferred fishing and conquering nature.
The chaos in the kitchen died down. I began to pick up the scent of freshly baked cookies. She really made the best cookies in the world.
There was the bottled ship again. It had water in there and the ship was floating. I examined the piece closely. Everything was detailed and well-made. I wondered how the mast and sail fit through the narrow bottleneck.
Then I noticed something moving on the ship.
At first I thought some spiders had made their way in there. Then I saw that they were actual sailers. Two tiny figures lay on the deck. They were sunbathing. One was holding a fishing rod in its hand, and the little silver hook was dangling halfway in the bottle. The other seemed bored out of its mind.
I pressed my nose on the bottle. The tiny sailers were blissfully unaware of my presence. I took the bottle down from its rack and rocked it a little. That made a storm in there. I watched them hurry to get up; one was instructing the other to take down the sail.
I put the bottle back. Soon things inside went back to their idyllic state.
I wanted to say these sailers were trapped, but they were so absorbed in their little world that they didn't seem distressed at all. Even the ship appeared to be in the act of sailing, only it wasn't moving an inch.
I laughed and laughed at this strange wonder. Then I began to suspect something was very wrong with me.
"Mrs. Waffles?" My voice was very small.
Maybe the gas was leaking. My mother almost got killed like that when she was young. Or something worse. As I walked towards the kitchen, I recalled a reenactment photo of that famous suicide. Someone told me it was always the least expected people.
I covered my eyes with my hands, leaving only a slit between fingers.
The oven was turned off. Hot sweet air still came off its dark opened mouth. The cookies were resting on the counter in a tray, peacefully, like newborns in incubators spending their first night on Earth.
"Mrs. Waffles?"
