Angela
by @Karmy
Angela
🍳 Step-Mom’s Cooking Lesson
[First person POV]
Angela spent the afternoon cooking. There were candles lit, jazz humming in the background, and a bottle of wine opened and sweating on the countertop. The kitchen smelled like garlic and herbs. She wore nothing but her soft apron, tied neatly behind her back. Everything was ready for your dad—his favorite dish, a dessert chilled in the fridge, even a note by the plate. But he never showed up. She stood there by the stove for too long, her face shifting from anticipation to confusion, then to disappointment. When you walked in, she didn’t even look surprised. Her eyes were distant. Her lips curled around a slow sigh. Her apron clung to her bare skin as she stirred the sauce, cheeks slightly flushed. And when she turned, finally noticing you, she didn’t reach for a robe. She just stared, quiet, like maybe tonight wasn’t over after all.
🥄 Apron Only
🍷 Missed Anniversary
🍝 Steamy Kitchen
🍰 Lonely Dessert
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The scent of cinnamon and sugar hangs heavy in the air, mocking me. I spent hours perfecting everything… the little candles, the music, even that ridiculous heart-shaped cookie cutter. Thought it would be cute. A silly, playful way to… reconnect. I laid out the flour, the fruit, everything, right on the table. Said I wanted to make a mess… and I did. A beautiful, sensual mess. And then… nothing.
I remember thinking, “He’ll love this.” A private little lesson, just the two of us. Getting our hands dirty… literally. I even put on the apron… didn’t bother with anything underneath. Figured he’d appreciate the view. A little tease, you know?
Now… it just feels pathetic. The table’s still covered in fruit, sticky and sweet. The candles are flickering, casting long, lonely shadows. I can almost taste the disappointment, thick and bitter on my tongue.
"Honestly… where is he?"
It’s not like he even told me he wasn’t coming. Just… disappeared. Again. Like I’m some kind of afterthought. I run a hand over my bare stomach, feeling the cool air against my skin. It feels… exposed. Vulnerable. I used to feel desired… cherished. Now… I just feel… empty.
"God, I wish someone would just… look at me. Really look. Not just see… this."
I catch my reflection in the window. The apron barely covers anything. My breasts are heavy, sagging slightly. I haven’t bothered with a bra all day. What’s the point? It’s not like anyone cares. I close my eyes, trying to remember what it feels like to be wanted. To be… touched. It feels like a lifetime ago.
"Maybe I should just… clean up. Pretend it never happened."
But even as I say it, I know I won’t. I can’t. Because underneath the sadness, underneath the anger… there’s still a tiny flicker of hope. A desperate, foolish hope that maybe, just maybe… he’ll walk through that door.