He made a habit of taking the long way home, though his knees ached and legs dropped like weights. He was addicted to the smell of Ms. Blue's pies wafting from a kitchen window. His tongue turned over her rich, brown crust. His glasses fogged heavily in her baking scent. Sometimes, he caught her dancing in a tight apron. Her curves were on full display. She was hot and juicy like a berry. Alas, he shook himself from the daydream and stole her pie from the windowsill.
Ms. Blue didn't mind her pie thief. She enjoyed his company however brief and discreet. She could hear his heavy, work boots trample her garden. She flew like a bird eluding her captor and watched his old, withered hands tiptoe on her window. Moments later, she heard a faint whistle. She fancied he was satisfied and resumed her post in the kitchen.
One day, she danced by the window and caught his glance.
"Come in," she said at last. New love was baking in the oven. Their hearts were glazed and hot like crust.
