By Melissa Jornd
Frank stands inside the dispensary while a scruffy man with a ginger beard and pin-filled lanyard explains the different options, from oils and resin to drinks and cookies — “Cookies?” A memory flits through his brain, of Cindy and him in Argentina, stopping at corner cafes, feeding each other pan dulce before heading to the beach she found, Playa Escondida, bathing suits optional. He remembers gaping when she unclasped her top, smirking, sunlight glinting off her breasts.
Those perky breasts he loved, now traitors.
Focus.
“Do you have alfajores?” He receives a blank stare.
“Uh…no.”
“How about macarons?” He thinks of their trip to France, climbing the Eiffel Tower, Cindy’s hand pressed against her chest, believing it was the exertion and European air causing her pains.
Ginger Beard looks at Frank for a moment. “Would cannabutter work? You could make your…things.”
Frank picks up two tubs of butter and a hemp lotion, still in slight disbelief. Twenty years ago, he stood in front of wide-eyed schoolchildren preaching the dangers of drugs. Now he’s purchasing them, in a desperate bid to minimize Cindy’s pain, even though he knows it won’t cure her. Caught too late, the doctors said sadly in the hallway, before signing off on her returning home for the time she has left.
At the register, he hands Ginger Beard a stack of twenties.
“Have a nice day!” He chirps as Frank leaves. Frank tries to smile back, but isn’t sure he succeeds.
*
The walkie-talkie crackles as Frank desperately stirs the dulce de leche. At least the shortbread was straightforward, although some are more burnt-brown than weed-green.
“Cindy wants to know if you’re burning the house down,” Nurse No-Nonsense asks.
“I’m baking,” he growls, sweating over the stove.
There’s no response, but Frank can sense Cindy’s amusement from the bedroom.
When No-Nonsense takes Cindy for her stroll, he rearranges the room with all their Argentina mementos, the alfajores on her nightstand between the pill bottles.
Cindy brightens when she returns. “What’s this?” she asks.
“Bienvenidos a Argentina,” he has a horrible Spanish accent, and Cindy gives a weak laugh. He explains the cookies, fusing past and present. There’s a sadness in her eyes as she eats one.
“I’m sorry we couldn’t finish our adventures,” Cindy says in a faint voice. Frank wipes her tears, leaving his palm on her cheek.
“You are my adventure,” he replies.
She entwines her hand with his: one translucent and trembling, one calloused and olive.
To him, they’re still a perfect match.
They lay on the bed, recounting their favorite Argentina memories. After about an hour, Cindy lifts her head.
“I’m feeling…better?” Cindy seems surprised; Frank is too. And he knows in that moment he’ll buy the entire dispensary to help her feel like herself for even one more day. They both look at the cookies in wonder.
“Where are we going tomorrow?” Cindy asks, snuggling into Frank.
“Wherever you want. I’ll bake you the world.”
* * *
Melissa Jornd is a Midwest gal with mountain dreams, whose stories have appeared in Crepuscular Magazine, Witcraft, 101 Words and more. She has won the Gold Scribes Prize and placed in contests from NYCMidnight, Flash Fiction Magazine, and Writer’s Weekly. When she’s not pushing against contest deadlines, you’ll find her frolicking through nature, trying to master new hobbies in under an hour, or force-cuddling her two cats, Charlie and Minnie.