BY christina hennemann
I push the glass door open with both hands, gripping the iron handle in the shape of a pretzel.
Guten Morgen, was darf’s sein? I’m greeted by the baker’s wife and the heavenly smell of
fresh bread and warm pastries. Has time not moved on since I left? I feel not one year older
than the girl who came here after school to spend her pocket money on a scrumptious
chocolate-covered croissant with an unhealthy amount of soft nougat cream inside. I’d like a
loaf of the Westphalian, I say, and point at the fat, tanned corpse on the shelf. She
understands me despite my English accent and grabs the bread with her plump hands,
embellished with sharp red plastic nails, impeccable. Plop, bread in bag, twirl and seal.
She looks at me, expecting me to say something. Anything else? she prompts as a glimmer
shoots through her eyes, a subtle smile flits across her face. Nein danke, I stammer. That’s
everything. She tuts and asks if I haven’t seen the sign outside. About the special offer. A
wink. I feel my hand stroke an invisible strand of hair from my forehead. The discomfort of
not knowing what’s appropriate. I should’ve been more attentive. She explains it’s
International Women’s Day. We have a special offer of fresh men today. Baker-made. Can I
get you one? She licks her lips. Well, how does that work? I shift my weight from left to
right. I should probably leave, I think, but I’m intrigued. He’ll be ready for pick-up in the
afternoon, she says as if we’re talking about a birthday cake.
My mum always said you can’t bake yourself a man, love. You gotta deal with what you get.
I go through my list: six-foot tall, blue eyes, greying dark-blond hair (short, please, like him
in the picture over there, yes), a six pack, but not too poster-boy-like, you know what I mean?
And nice feet, that would be great. I tap my fingers against my thighs as she takes notes. And
down there? Another wink. Oh, well, just...reasonably sized. No banana shape, but like,
straight, if possible. I blush and she shows me samples. I pick number six. Nummer sex, she
repeats in her middle-aged rural accent. What flavour? I can’t decide between chocolate and
vanilla, so I choose marble cake. Lovely, consider it done. Paying now or later? I hand her a
few coins for the Westphalian and a fifty euro note for the man.
⌘
I return with my hair curled and red lips. The door glides open with a mere tip of the fingers.
The baker’s wife grins at me and snaps her fingers. Just one moment, and she slips through
the sliding doors, into the boiling hot womb at the back of the shop. I stand waiting with
butterflies in my stomach. Shame and anticipation feel exactly the same. She comes back
with a beautiful man in tow, just the one I had in mind when I ordered. The baker surpassed
himself. My man’s bright-blue eyes seem a little empty, but then again, hasn’t he just been
born? He wants to be filled with the world. The woman moves to the side and presents the
baker-made man in all his glory, butt-naked. I fumble with the top button on my coat. Happy
with your order? she clasps her hands. Yes, that’s perfect, vielen Dank. My eyes run over his
body, then fixate on the baker’s wife, my anchor. Off you go then, enjoy, the woman winks
and waves.
I’m a bit thrown off. The baked man apparently comes without clothes. The first time I
understood that I was German was when I wondered why people wore swimwear on beaches
abroad. I shrug and take his hand. It’s warm and doughy, and I feel the urge to curl up inside
him like an embryo. Or eat him. He smells deliciously of marble cake. He opens the door for
me like a gentleman and we step outside. His penis is dangling against his testicles with every
step, and I pull my eyes away. Am I obscene or is he? There’s an elderly couple on the other
side of the road. They’re throwing us not one glance. A teenager almost bumps into me with
his head buried in his smartphone. A father and his little daughter pass us. The girl admires
my glossy hair, and the father gives us a lazy wave. We take a turn and find ourselves in a
secluded alley. He stops and looks at me as if he’s in love. That should be included in the
price, shouldn’t it? I kiss him and he feels real, just tastier. Can you speak? I ask. He nods.
Christina Hennemann is an award-winning poet and writer. She’s the author of three poetry chapbooks and received an Irish Arts Council’s Agility Award. Her work appears in Poetry Ireland, Poetry Wales, Anthropocene, The Moth, York Literary Review, The Belfast Review, Impossible Archetype, and elsewhere. www.christinahennemann.com