The scent of cookies and heat from the ovens swirled together and pulsed through the air. Sunlight streamed through the yellow curtains above the sink, and the floor was dusted with spilled flour and sugar. I stood at the counter, my fingers and knuckles kneading a small pile of dough. Soon it was rolled into a semi-perfect ball, and I laid it into a glass bowl with a towel draped over it, set to rise.

My mother taught me that when you began to smell whatever was in the oven, that meant it was close to done. Sure enough, as I peeked inside, the oven’s dry heat pushed against my cheeks and lips, and I could see my perfect tray of snickerdoodles, all finished baking and ready to go.

While taking them out, my back was turned away from the door, and I heard the little bell ring as someone came in.

In this small town, where everyone knew everyone, I could rely on the same customers on certain days with certain time periods in which they came in. Today was Monday, bright and early, and there was only one person who came in at this hour.

Jason.

Across the little road in front of my bakery, sat a rather newer, and cleaner bakery that specializes in treats from around the world, whereas I kept my menu to classic cookies and cakes. Jason had opened his shop about a year ago, and at first things between us were slightly tense, but since then things had blown up into a full competition mixed with pettiness and drama.

At first I was the leading baker, since everyone knew me in the town. But Jason’s worldly treats soon gained fame for being different and lovely. Granted, most of my usual customers still came in regularly, but people from other towns arrived to partake in his new shop.

It wasn’t until a few months back that Jason began to come into my bakery early Monday morning, and I was not happy about it. He would try to make conversation, and I would reply in hostile tones. He would look at whatever was in my display cases, and tease me about my food. But he would also buy a cup of coffee from the cafe down the road, and leave it for me on the front counter while I tended to whatever was in the oven at the moment.

He walked in, confident and proud, with a lazy half smile tossed in my direction. I glared right back. He gently set the cup of coffee he bought for me on the front counter, without saying a word. I dropped the hot cookie tray on top of the over, and it clattered and sent some of the perfect rows of cookies into imperfect layouts. I strode over to the counter.

“What’s fresh for today?” He asked, still grinning.

I gave an impatient sigh, walking towards the counter and gesturing to the display case. “Everything you see was baked earlier.”

He bent down to gaze at the assortment of doughnuts. “I’ll take a dozen, please.”

“No way, go somewhere else then. I am not giving the competition some of my products.” I walked around the counter and began pushing against his shoulders towards the door. “You can come in and look all you want, but when it comes to buying I am more than happy to make you leave.”

He laughed and stepped around me, back towards the counter. “But your doughnuts are so good, the nearest bakeries besides our own are miles away. No one can compare to your treats.”  

I continued my struggle in making him leave.

“Okay, okay,” he held up his hands in surrender. “How about a deal? I’ll leave, but only if you teach me how you make your famous sugar cookies, and I’ll even help you make a perfect batch of french macarons.”

I paused. Everyone loved his macarons, and I had tried to make them once, and failed spectacularly. My sugar cookies were famous around town too, an old recipe that had been in my family with a more modern and tasty frosting that I created myself. The deal had merit.

I looked up at him for a second, before turning on my heel and going back through the door to the kitchen. Taking the tray of snickerdoodles, I began laying them on a cooling rack. Jason followed me and leaned against the doorframe. Neither of us said a word for a minute, the only sound my spatula scraping against the cooking sheet.

“So...” Jason began hesitantly. “Do we have a deal?”

“I guess,” I huffed. He grinned, and I felt the corners of my mouth twitch up in response. Jason quickly snagged one of my cookies, and I swiped my spatula at him in response. His laugh followed him out the door, and remained echoing in my head all day.

I suddenly realized that, for a while now, I’ve sort of looked forward to his visits every Monday morning.