Choux Cream Cake

The Baker

I opened my apartment door to see her holding a red box tied with a red ribbon, “Happy Birthday!”

She leaned forward and kissed my cheek, hugging me with one hand. I remember the glee I felt seeing her that day- I could spend time alone with the one I loved on my special day. She opened the box on my kitchen table revealing a round cake, the white top glazed over with sticky caramel dripping down the sides, the bottom edges covered in graham crumbs. In the centre, three choux cream rounds laid support for the small ‘Happy Birthday’ sign, stuck through the cake. It looked simple yet tempting and perfect. It tasted sweet with a hint of salty, maybe from the caramel or the graham crumb.

I choose to remember that taste, that happy memory, when I think of her.

September 3, 2025- that’s when I lost my first love.

Barely a year had passed since then, I’d gone through a depression the first few months, then it took some help from my family to get me back on my feet. I never truly moved on, I wasn’t able to. I didn't want to talk about her- the memory a trigger to an irreversible downward spiral. Nobody knows about the cake or the fact that it was the only thing to comfort me when the pang in my heart started to come back. It was the only thing that soothed me- not the taste, but the memory it was connected to- though, yes, the taste was amazing.

That day I felt her creeping into my thoughts again, so I made my way to the bakery. It was as the only bakery that offered the Choux Cream Cake- located not too far from my current workplace. I dropped by after closing the cafe.

“Can I have a slice of Choux Cream Cake?”

“Ah, sorry, Khun Perth, we don’t offer that cake anymore,” the cashier looked at me apologetically, we’d become familiar for the past year after I became a regular. “I can offer you a similar cake, though, it doesn’t have the choux creams but it is still caramel glazed.”

I took home the slice and threw it in the trash after the first bite, it wasn’t the same- a mockery is what it was. I felt my heart sink when the realisation dawned on me that the only thing helping me tolerate this state I was in wasn’t accessible anymore. Then the panic started.

I went back to work the next day as usual- business doesn’t stop for panic attacks.  

I opened up at 9 am, I started the day alone, sweeping the floor, wiping the tables and making sure the register was in order. I looked at the new refrigerated pastry casing we’d just had installed yesterday- empty, that’ll soon change when we hire a suitable patisserie of some sort. I think there’s one I’m interviewing today. I wasn’t in the best of moods, my movements were robotic. I’ll get through it somehow, I always do. Though, this time I wasn’t sure.

An hour later, I was behind the counter settling a customer’s order, I handed them the drink and then said thank you with a smile. I greeted the next person in line with the same greeting: a smile and the default welcome.

“Welcome, what can I get for you today, sir?” I looked at him, he wore a blue striped polo, opened to reveal a plain white shirt underneath, black jeans. His hair was swept up and wavy, dyed brown, snow white-peach skin, almost flawless, supple. No doubt he was a youth looking for some kind of fancy ice blended frappe, or maybe a black coffee butchered with an unhealthy amount of caffeine shots to keep them awake- it was always one or the other. Though he looked too put together and mentally stable for the overdosed black coffee option. I say this like I’m 30. Well, I felt like I was, anyway.

“Uh, actually, I’m here for the interview? I’m looking for,” he checked his phone, “Perth Tanapon, khap?”

Ah.