She woke up thinking about layers. Sheet after sheet of varying thickness coating and covering and hiding. She woke up. Layers. Her mind was filled with layers. Layers of dust that coating the books that lay untouched in the library her parents had collected. First editions and author signed copies. Rare manuscripts. Preserved, cataloged and saved. Layers of dust that seemed to have accumulated in every surface at home when she opened it yesterday after months of neglecting it.

She thought about layered desserts. She woke up with an urge to create. To create layered desserts. Not one or two. Multiples of them. To create and get her hands covered with flour and sugar. To let the smell of vanilla and cinnamon infiltrate through the layers of the house. The manor. The mausoleum. Smelling of dust, rotting flowers and memories. “Layered desserts it is” she declared pulling herself out of layers of sheets and blankets.

She stretched her legs and wondering what to create. She spoke out aloud to the emptiness in front of her as she went through the routines of the morning. “Tiramisu maybe? Layers of ladyfingers dipped in strong espresso and a hint of coffee liqueur, egg and mascarpone cheese flavored with the best Dutch cocoa. Hmmm” Splashing water on her face, washing the sleep and the layers of unwashed caked up make-up. Smudges of eyeliner and mascara and eye shadow.

“Maybe I will go traditional with a layer cake. The British sandwich. A vanilla cake with caramel cinnamon filling and browned butter Swiss meringue buttercream. With nothing but the best – the spicy and Saigon cinnamon, the smooth European butter, the soft Tahitian vanilla and farm fresh organic eggs. Oh so delicious. Just like a snickerdoodle” she thought shedding the layers of nightwear. Sweaters and long sleeve tees. Thermal pants layered with lounge pants. “Perfection a plate”

“Kueh Lapis” she swirled the word around her tongue. Just like she had done with the mouth wash a few minutes earlier as she made her way to the kitchen. “18 layers. One on top of the other. Each of 100 grams. Watched with a hawk eye. Pressed down with a lapis press. A Chinese New Year staple. A lengthy and time consuming process but oh the well-defined layers tasting of melting butter and rum.”

Layers – one following another. A pattern. A rhythm. A sequence. One of the other. Arranged in perfection. Like those stiffly starched pleats in the saree her granny used to wear. “Layers are everywhere” she hummed. “Bánh da lợn – the Vietnamese steamed tapioca cake, Baklava – filo pastry, chopped nuts and honey, Son papdi – ghee, gram flour and nuts, Prekmurska gibanica – short crust pastry, walnuts, cheese, poppy seed and apple, Mille Feuilles – puff pastry, butter, chocolate and cheese. Oh the choices”

“The beauty of layers” she thought as she poured double espresso into a cup of streamed milk over the back of a spoon. “Thank you Mrs. B for stocking up the kitchen before shutting it down. She does deserve a raise” she muttered. Maybe I will go the spicy route with layers she pondered. “The flaky Asian paratha with spicy chicken stew or the all-time classic lasagna. Maybe the Mexican 7 layer dip or the Balkan Moussaka or the Peruvian Causa Rellena”. She sat down on the table – a wooden table layered with glass with her latte and thoughts. Thoughts about layers.

Layers were a part of life. She had layers in her hair. “To give an illusion of length and volume” sang her stylist. The earth had layers. So had the atmosphere. Apparently the society had too. Layers that didn’t mingle. Like the ones on the perfectly crafted latte in front of her. The espressos did never mingle with milk. They stayed distinctly separate in spite of co-existing. She had tried to commit the sin of mixing layers, “She is beautiful and rich and awfully nice. She cooks like a dream and works harder than most of the people who walk through the doors of this bakery. But she isn’t from our world. How will she ever fit in? Her big house, cars, clothes – she will want to go back to them. No woman will give up all those for a man.  She will never fit in” she heard the sharp voices talk in hushed tones behind closed doors. “It will never work” he had said as she had packed her suitcases. Filling in layers of clothes rather haphazardly.

Layers exist and she could not stop thinking about them.

This post is a part of the April A to Z challenge. 26 days, 26 letters and 26 short stories. Come back tomorrow for more.