“Nude cyclist!” Tiff beamed, her tiny nose and freckles practically glowing with glee.
“Are there pictures?” I leaned over her shoulder.
“What, does it sound like someone you might know?” She grinned from ear to eat, then folded the paper and handed it to me. “Nah, no pictures. Too many conservatives funding this mag. It might catch fire if they printed something else besides female tits.” She looked genuinely disappointed.
“Don’t worry, I’ll bring you newspapers with all the wild penises your little, freckled heart desires when we visit Europe,” I nudged her on the arm. “The hot cross bun dough is proofing, they’ll be ready to put in in about an hour. I set the timer, so you’ll know. Last ones for today.”
“Oh? You’re headed out already?”
“Yeah, come ‘ere,” I leaned to her ear, “it’s our anniversary today. Tim and I have special plans…” I whispered.
“Oh jeesh! Why didn’t you say so earlier?! I could’ve made a card or something…,” she pouted.
“Hell yeah! At least a dozen. A whole basket of dicks! A disket!”
“Aw, I appreciate that, hun,” I grabbed Tiff in a tight bear hug. “We’re okay, though. We have dicks at home. And I made a cake earlier. I just want a little extra time with Tim today. I think the Shoppe’s been taking a lot of my attention in the past few weeks…,” I muttered, letting my mind drift in the date nights missed because of the hairy balls and angry old ladies and an endless sea of dick-shaped cakes for bachelorette parties and people who clearly didn’t want to party with anyone but wanted a dick cake all to themselves for the night… it had been busy. I hadn’t anticipated how much time running a bakery would really take with just the two of us there on most days.
“Well duh,” Tiffany muttered somewhere from my below my chest. “I keep telling you to get an extra baker here full time.”
“You were right. I’m gonna look into it next week.” I squeezed her cheek. “But tonight is for me and Tim.”
“Here,” she stuck the newspaper under my arm, “I read it already and did the crosswords. And might have doodled on it.”
“Er… this is a very last minute anniversary gift?”
“No, I just can’t be bothered to take the trash out…. as somebody just put me in charge of the till as well as the baking because they’re playing hooky with their boyfriend.” She fluttered her eyes with her mouth pressed into a tight, straight line trying to not burst out laughing.
I let out a deep sigh and turned over the newspaper. The cyclist had been drunk and “naked” (in quotation marks), plowing through the holiday displays in the center, then raiding a chestnut stand and stuffing himself before passing out in a manger. He was wearing a mustard tie.