By Mary Stacy
She remembered the first time....
They had had a fight - no little lover's quarrel but a major argument, one that made her wonder if this was ever going to work. But looking back over the years, the edges of the argument itself had blurred and it was the memory of afterward that lingered sharp and true.
She had meant to divert herself somehow and the surest way she knew was to do something - she would bake that damn cake she had wanted to try for him, the apple cake recipe that had been in her family for generations, but now the cake would serve as a connection to her life before Sarek, the family she had given up, the home abandoned. She made as much noise as she possibly could, clattering pans, banging utensils, both as a release of her anger and hopefully to irritate him. He needed to be irritated as much as she was - it should be mutual.
Amanda took out the apples and pressed them into the corer, one by one, her fingers covered by the sticky juice that covered the slices. Then she peeled them and dumped them into the large mixing bowl. Now she would have to find -- somewhere in the spices that were tucked into the small cupboard, she reached in again and again: nutmeg, allspice, pepper, cream of tartar, where was the damn....
She found it in the very back, a shaker of cinnamon and dumped a good portion onto the apples. She tossed the slices, their stickiness causing the cinnamon to cling to their surfaces, as well as her hands, and as she brushed a stray curls aside, it streaked across her face. The air hung with the fragrance of fruit and spice.
There was an audible sigh- no, a deep breathe behind her and she turned. Sarek's eyes were closed, and she seemed to imagine that the flare of his nostrils and curve of his already full mouth...
He moved to her then, taking her hand into his, holding it to his mouth, he sucked and licked each stray speck of the cinnamon, first from the right, then the left, then across her face, it had been enough to... the very memory brought a warm tingle between her legs.
They had not made it to the bedroom for the 1st round, but had baptized the old wooden kitchen table quite well. She smoothed her hand over its surface, nicked with memories of all sorts of "meals" taken on it. They had in fact barely made it to the bedroom for the 2nd act, the argument long since forgotten.
It had always then, become their peace treaty when things between them got tense, or misunderstandings out of hand. A cake that never got baked, and a bowl of apples covered in cinnamon waiting to be devoured. And now that once again they had the house to themselves, the kitchen table could return as a starting point...