This story was written for Round 1 of the NYC Midnight Short Story Challenge, 2020. The way this competition works: for each round, you’re assigned a prompt at random, which you share with the thirty or so other people in your heat. This prompt includes the genre of the story (drama, for me and the rest of Heat 146), a topic (expunge) and a character (a cake decorator). I was at an utter loss when I received the prompt - the genre was alien to me, I had no idea how to write a cake decorator, and what does expunge even mean?

However, at the end of the allotted eight days Round 1, I was quite satisfied with what I had put together. It came third in my heat, resulting in my graduation to Round 2 - for which I am eagerly awaiting judgment.
(UPDATE: The story I wrote for Round 2 can be found here!)

This competition has been a fascinating experience, proving to me that I can actually write a story, and not a half-bad one, within a pretty short time - once I dig myself out of the procrastination ditch. The pressure of a deadline appears to have something to do with that. Please, enjoy the story!

On Concurrent Cake Decoration for Divorce Ceremonies

Lachlan Marnoch, 2020

It’s a good day for a divorce. The ceremony will begin in the afternoon, at the local church. I establish my station in a dedicated alcove just in front of stage left, opposite the organist. I lay out the tools of my trade - several piping bags filled with icing of various colours, a complete set of metal piping nozzles, stacks of shapes in fondant and marzipan, containers of modelling chocolate, and a small freezer.

The guests are filing in. In the front row, nearest me, are Riki’s parents and sister. They are not from Haber, you can tell at a glance - their skin is a different shade and they look at everything as though it might bite them. I met them at the wedding, fourteen years ago - I was the cake artist then too, one of my very first. It’s sad to be doing the divorce as well, but Aya and Riki both said it felt right - like completing the circle.

Once my kit is set up, I go back to the van and return pushing three cake tiers, prepped in advance with a covering of black marzipan. I take a deep breath.

The ceremony begins with a blare from the organs. That's my cue. My first addition to the cake is the coats-of-arms of the two families - a tiger and a hawk rendered in candy glaze. These I have prepared prior, and I set them on opposite faces of the bottom tier.

As I work, the two partners enter from opposite ends of the stage. From my alcove I catch a glimpse of Aya, the post-bride, in a black-and-white suit. Across the stage, the post-groom Riki is dressed in a similar style.

Selecting the green piping bag, I trace vines emerging from each family crest, reaching towards each other, growing tangled. A white rose blooms at the centre. My motions are swift and steady. In this profession, speed is as important as artistic skill.

"I still can't believe this," hisses Tashana, Riki’s mother, in a stage whisper. “How could this happen to us? I warned him about these Haber sluts.”

I can feel blood flooding my cheeks and hear my heart beating, but my work doesn’t waver. Tashana succumbs to frantic shushes from her daughter Lana, who looks utterly mortified. So she should be.

The priest speaks, her voice echoing throughout the church. “We are gathered here today to dissolve the marriage of Aya Byrde and Riki Gale.” She places the divorce papers on the pedestal behind them.

“Who can really blame him, though?” grumbles Nika, Riki’s father, eyes on Aya. “If you looked like any of these Haber girls our sex life might have limped on a few years longer.” I glance up. The mother, Tashana, has blanched, her nostrils flaring. Lana covers her face.

“Still,” he continues. “A divorce ceremony. What rubbish. What will these people think of next.” I’m not the only one who can hear them - lots of sidelong glances and upturned noses from the rest of the crowd. Ignore it, keep decorating.

"Do you, Aya Byrde, acquiesce to the dissolution of this marriage?"

Aya nods.

“I acquiesce.”

"Do you agree to the terms of this divorce, as set out in the document before you?"

This is repeated for Riki.

“I hereby unbind you both from the sacrament of marriage. If you choose, you may now have your last kiss."

The two share an uncertain look. Aya nods. Riki smiles.

Their final kiss is one of lingering affection and attraction. It is a tradition, in The Last Night, for the separating partners to sleep together once more before the ceremony. This has not been mandatory for decades, but I’d bet these two followed it. I can see, from the corner of my eye, Tashana squirming in her seat.

The former partners take turns signing the papers. The guests stand up and make their way toward the reception hall. The catering staff wheel my cake, and I push my station along after them. I take stock of my progress, and consider how to proceed.

The guests are seated at tables. I find, to my dismay, Riki’s family is once again seated near the cake station. I lift an airtight container from my freezer; inside is a squat cylinder wrapped in aluminium foil. I peel the foil and the layer of plastic wrap beneath. Within is the top tier of the original wedding cake. Slightly freezer-burnt, but in better condition than many I’ve seen. I used an oil-based cake, which is best for this kind of preservation, and the couple appears to have kept it appropriately. It won’t taste as good as it did fourteen years ago, but that’s hardly the point. I set it aside to defrost.

Hors d'oeuvres and champagne glasses pour from the kitchen. Tashana eyes the item in Lana’s hand. “What on earth is that?”

“Squid jerky,” says Lana happily, snapping off a tentacle and chewing ferociously. “Try it!”

Tashana shudders. "Barbaric, what these people eat."

“You’re the pickiest fucking eater I know, Tashana,” says Nika through a handful of mini-quiches.

The Storytelling begins. One by one, friends and family stand up. Aya’s best friend is first, with the story of how they first met at university. Aya worked at a campus café and served Riki coffee for months before they had the guts to swap numbers. I add a steaming keep-cup to the cake.

The next story is about how Aya was refused entry from the local dive thanks to one too many pre-drinks, but she knew Riki was inside so she climbed the rear fence, sprained her ankle on the way down and was immediately booted out. Riki escorted her to her dorm and treated her injury. I rapidly construct a caricature of a woman in a cocktail dress scaling a fence.

One of their first dates was to a climate change protest. I add a placard bearing the slogan “Fuck each other, not the Earth.”

Aya’s mother delivers a heartfelt speech about the first time Riki and Aya came to dinner together. She served spiced clams and by the end of the evening she knew the pair were right together. She finishes, tears in her eyes, by telling her daughter and her former son-in-law that she loves them both and that Riki still has a place at her table. A plate of spiced clams joins the ensemble.

The couple’s post-marriage road trip around the country is painted as a red car on a road that wraps around the middle tier. Reya’s birth becomes a screaming baby. Luka’s birth joins opposite.

Then come the stories depicting the dark, cold rift that grew between the couple. Nightly fights, crying children. The furtive affairs conducted by each, and the deep regret felt after. The creeping realisation that they were no longer right for each other. The couple coming to the conclusion, after weeks of tearful arguments, that their marriage had to end. I draw rips in the third tier, blue teardrops, slammed doors.

“How can they spout this bile in public?” scoffs Nika. He and Tashana have taken liberal advantage of the free-flowing champagne, and both are red in the face.

The Storytelling concludes with a speech from each partner. They reiterate their reasons for the divorce and reaffirm their deep sadness at the marriage’s failure. Riki is crying before he even begins. Aya had stopped, but sobs through her final words.

I pick up the old wedding tier and place it precisely at the apex of my creation. From my pocket, I draw a pair of wooden figurines - also saved from the wedding. These I place in their old positions, in the centre of the white upper tier. The cake is complete.

The cake-cutting is a two-person job. Aya and Riki approach down the centre of the hall - eyes red and faces damp, and neither entirely steady on their feet. They revolve about the finished cake, taking it in.

“I love it,” whispers Riki to me, and Aya nods. I accept their praise graciously. From my toolbox, I pull my great cake slicer - two feet long with a handle at either end - and hand it gingerly to the formerlyweds. I have learnt to keep the knife just shy of full sharpness. It is not unheard of for a divorce cake to be spoilt with spilt blood from an unsteady hand.

The former partners, standing on either side, raise the knife over the cake. They place it between the two figurines, and with a nod at each other, plunge the handles downward. It goes more smoothly than usual. The blade slices straight down the centre of the cake; it reaches the bottom tier, cuts the vines tying the crests together and passes through the centre of the rose. Two near-symmetrical halves are left standing. There are always ragged edges, but these are smoother than most.

I take the knife back and continue the job, with the help of the priest. Slices are distributed by the waitstaff.

“Why does it have to be black?” Tashana says, eyeing the dark flesh of her slice with distaste. “It’s dreadfully unappealing.” She glances up and notices my eyes on her. She blushes but doesn’t look away. “Where’s Nika?”

Nika has stood, and is wobbling toward the couple. Lana shadows him warily.

“How can you let her do this, Riki?” he bellows. Silence falls.

“She got what she needed from you, and now she's abandoning you. She didn't even take your name!”

“Women don’t take the husband’s name in Haber, dad. We both want this. It’s the right thing.”

“And what about the children?” Nika spits. “What do they want?”

“Custody’s all sorted, dad. Even split. They’re better off like this.”

“Oh? Why don’t we ask them? Luka, Reya, come here!”

Aya’s father, standing between the seated children, rests a hand on each of their shoulders. Aya shoots Riki a glare. "Control your father."

This does not cool things down.

“Don’t you dare talk about me like that. You’re the one who brought him here, got him all tangled in this mess!”

Aya’s mother steps in.

“Don’t you ever speak to my daughter like that.”

Nika turns and jabs at the newcomer’s chest. “I’ll talk to your selfish bitch of a daughter however I please.” The mother recoils, shocked to silence.

Nika gestures at the cake.

“And this horrid thing… sex and drugs and private fights. I ought to…”

Seized by a terrible impulse, Nika turns and rests both hands on the third tier of the cake. I lurch toward him, but I’m too slow - the entire remaining masterpiece tumbles to the ground, breaking apart on impact. It lies there like some grand old medieval ruin. I collapse to my knees beside it.

“Get out!” screams Riki at his dad.

Nika, black marzipan on his hands, stares him down. They look very alike in this moment, eye-to-eye and filled with rage. Nika breaks first.

“Fine. Tashana, Lana, we’re leaving.”

Tashana jerks toward him, but Lana doesn’t move from Riki’s side.

“I’m staying.”

Tashana looks torn for a moment. Then she breathes in and returns to Lana’s side. Lana raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment.

Nika snarls.

“You ungrateful quims.” He takes a stride toward Tashana, raising a hand, but before it can land, a security guard seizes his wrist in midair. The other guard takes his arm and he is frogmarched from the premises.

Aya and Riki watch him leave, then turn to the cake’s wreckage. Devastation is wrought in their features. I sigh. From the corpse of the cake I salvage the two figurines, then climb to my feet.

“I have a spare base in my van,” I say. “Your guests can still eat.”

Divorce guests are deliberately underfed at dinner to ensure the entire cake is eaten - without a cake, however, this has resulted in a dangerously hungry crowd.

“Thank you,” Aya says. “Thank you so much. We’ll pay you...”

I wave my hand. “It’s on the house.”

The gratitude on their faces salves the pain.

“I’m sorry,” says Riki, looking back and forth between me and Aya. “Dad...”

“It’s not your fault, Rik.” Aya pats him stiffly on the back. “I was worried about inviting them too, but… who could have predicted this?”

The reception continues. Luka and Reya – the kids - are seated with Aya’s family. Luka is in tears, and Reya looks like she could start at any moment. I approach them and proffer the figurines.

Luka dries his eyes and takes his mother from my hand. I place the male figurine in front of Reya. She smiles.

I make my way outside. It’s dark now. I sit on the steps and watch clouds drift across the mountains, ablaze with gathered moonlight.

High heels click behind, and Lana joins me. She pulls a pack of cigarettes from somewhere inside her dress.

“Do you mind?” she asks.

“Only if you don’t offer me one.”

She lights mine first as I breathe in.

“That was a brilliant cake,” she says around her cigarette.

“Thank you.”

“I’m… really sorry about my parents.”

I shrug.

Lana nods. "In my country, marriage is founded on permanence. Divorce is illegal and deeply taboo."

I know this, but it still shocks me to hear it.

“Even when the cake is eaten properly - aren’t you sad to see the thing you worked hard on disappear?”

I shrug again.

“Sometimes. At first. But it’s meant to be enjoyed while it’s still good, not preserved on some shelf.”

“A transient art form.”

“Exactly.”

Aya and Riki are led from the church by their New Night partners. Often, if either formerlywed is not yet seeing someone or no appropriate casual partner can be found, one or two sex workers are engaged for the deconsummation. I don’t know if that’s the case here, but I do note that both Aya and Riki are hand-in-hand with men. They wave to each other, then enter separate cars, which drive in opposite directions along the street.

Lana watches this too. After a while, she speaks.

“I’m not sure I understand completely - why does the whole relationship have be expunged? Isn’t that what eating the cake symbolises?”

“Expunged? No, not the relationship. Just the marriage… something is expunged, certainly. The cake is celebration and mourning for what was, and how it has ended. It is catharsis and closure, for the partners and everyone around them.”

“Hmmm.” She takes a long drag, gazing at the mountains.

“The relationship isn’t gone,” I continue. “It has transformed. Nothing is ever truly obliterated, it just changes forms. That’s just physics.”

She raises an eyebrow but remains quiet. The two of us watch the guests trickle away long into the night.