Zaccaro

our spot until the scooch backs over. I stifle a laugh since she takes working out so seriously.
“Well tomorrow night the lion will be tamed. Er... Along with me as we mingle with Lolita and her new husband,” I say while alternating from kicks to punches. Though my technique is off, and I honestly can do better, I half-ass each move.
“Lolita? Oh,” Sandra groans, face contorted with a vivid picture. She almost stops shifting and is inches away from getting bonked in the side of the head by a likeminded crazy who’s never devoid of energy. The health fanatic gives us a look that should set fire to our asses and force us to kick higher, harder.
But Sandra just scoots away from the psycho, because being a health nut has flown out the window. Her mind is on my mother. “Well, I'm sure Evan won't last another night. So no worries about him scenting for blood because your mother...” Sandra shakes her head and goes back to giving it all she’s got.
I give a blank stare at myself in the mirror. My face is flushed and hair is matted to my forehead. When it comes to Lolita, I’ve stopped verbally fighting back in her favor. My last name came from hubby number two. Lolita’s husband after my father was a fucking jackass, yet not at the top of the shittiness ladder. Though each one increased it a notch in the ‘asshole’ department.
Two years ago, Sandra’s wealthy uncle fell madly in love with Lolita. I suppose the uncle was a glitch, and much nicer than the guys Lolita was accustomed to marrying.
Mom is not a hopeless romantic. Not in the least. She has a knack for finding affluent men who lack a backbone, then she proceeds to further ruin them just as much as they ruin her. The day Sandra’s uncle placed a five-carat, cloudless, diamond ring on my mother’s finger, was one of the worst days of my life, I can read the future, pertaining to Lolita. They were married for a few months. She kept the ring and God knows what else. He became one of many.
See, I know Sandra is thankful I’m not forcing her to go to dinner with me tomorrow night. Everyone that ever met my mother is done with her.
But me.
Before Evan is set to arrive, I step downstairs from my one-bedroom apartment, to my bakery. If this place doesn’t get out of its hump, I lose everything I own. A place to lay my head, the reason why I’ve ever smiled… baking. I'll be out on the streets. The handful of employees that I've gone out on a limb for, will be in the same predicament as they were before. Jobless and desperate. Besides Sandra and Jamie, who I went to culinary arts school with, I went out on a limb for my employees. I could have hired folks with accolade after accolade, but I hired those who really needed the job. It might not have been a good thing, blame it on being young and dumb, with a good heart. But stepping out on faith has made Flour a family. This crew is home to me.
“Aye, Reesita must have a new sancho,” says Maria, as she glances me up and down in approval. I’ve opted for a simple, black dress. The high neckline is lace since the dress drops dramatically, accentuating my thighs. Though my breasts are covered tastefully, I can still remember Evan’s tongue flickering over my nipples during one of our many positions.
I shake the desire from my mind. “No sancho. No boyfriend. Just a date.” I smile my thanks while looking at the unique spin she’s adding to a tres leches cake.
“No sancho?” Maria shakes her head. “You need a sugar daddy!”
“Who's talking about sugar daddies?” Jamie saunters back. Though his smooth, dark skin is in need of a shave, his imaginary hips are hitting every corner as he does. Shamefully, Jamie can catwalk circles around me.
Sandra is off today since she worked on a wedding cake which took half a day to bake yesterday. I have two other employees, but they're only hired on part-time.
I glance over the inventory and miss baking every day. Besides the special clients such as cakes for large events, I'm stuck in the walk-in sized closet considering events and public relation opportunities for my bakery.
I dare not go into the back room this evening. That environment just equals stress. My bakery has done well. I've made more money than I can even consider which charity to give to before. I know exactly when things won't go right at work.
My mom.
Lolita bleeds me dry in between husbands. Should I be elated that my mom now has a blood vessel in which to suck dry? It isn’t easy when I was born with more morals than my parents had in their pinky fingers.
Jamie grabs my hand. He spins me around. “You need higher heels. For a better sugar daddy, higher heels.”
“No sugar daddy. Five inches is more than enough.”
“Bailamos,” Maria says, doing the salsa.
I twirl out of Jamie's arms. “I've gotta go. Monday morning we have a meeting. Everyone must attend. It's crunch time before wedding season officially begins.” If we get there. I turn away from them, not wanting them to see my doubt. If I start crying, there’ll be a festival of tears. This learned trepidation that has begun to cling to me takes over as I step out the front of Flour.
We must make it. My mother has found an alternative husband so soon after the last one. Usually Lolita’s palm is out during the downtime of looking for a new, heavy wallet. So this should actually be good news. Good news, yeah, that quickly turns into guilt over the desire to pawn my mother off on a walking, breathing ATM card.
I take a deep breath and look toward the sky. There’s a flurry of gray clouds, offering the chance of rain before spring sweeps