Geselle Goodwin was as sweet as her name. She wore bows on every thing she could and swore only in oath to keep a promise. Springtime and cookies were two of her favorites, but ask Geselle and she’d say everything was her favorite. She spoke in affirmations and soft questions, and listened with nothing ever less than a smile. She’d spent so many years as a Home Ec teacher, even her hair began to smell like fresh-made rolls.

Two doors down the hall from Geselle’s room was phy-ed teacher Mark Mordel. Mark Mordel worked his first day when he was five years old, helping his Pa cut down the big oak in front of their house, and had never stopped working since. He was stiff as stone, and was the only man who’d ever embrace the softness between a rock and a hard place. He cursed at poorly parked sedans and looked down upon anyone sleeping past the hours of 6 am. Life was for working and doing and earning, according to Mark.

They’d been exceptionally pleased over their fifty-two dates. It had been a blissful bond, of honey cookies and smoldering fireplaces. Mark had found his soft spot, and Geselle’s only twelve minutes of rage were thanks to his steadfast values of hunting and grunting. Mark learned to dance for their thirty-first date, and Geselle puffed one breath through a cigar on their forty-fourth. They were quite possibly the one true example of opposites attract, a puzzle that would entertain the jokes and whispers of their students.

Yet there was a distance between them that all the quirks of asymmetry could never overcome. The athletic endurance of pickleball at 10 am could never match the gummy guilt brought upon by maple syrup and buttermilk waffles.

Though, as Mark warned Geselle time and time again, everything good must come to an end. It had happened one gym class, when a particularly savory recipe was on the agenda for Geselle’s Advanced Flavors class. The project had been a test of baking, cooking, and craftsmanship: Breakfast pizza, a sea of sausage, eggs, and peppers atop a doughy cinnamon roll crust.

Phillip Thurgess had ignored his teacher’s warnings, stuffing his face slice after slice until his breath stunk of gravy and his fingers stuck with glaze. He found no remorse and no regret as he sauntered into gym next hour, still dreaming of breakfast meat and orange juice. In fact, it wasn’t until 10:42, when he was on is third sprint across the court when the regret hit him like a semi down the highway.

A sea of sausage, eggs, and peppers atop a doughy cinnamon roll crust splattered against the newly waxed floor. Smeared across Hank the Hawk yelling “Go, team, go!” An image that Mark could never quite forget. An image he’d see anytime he heard Geselle Goodson’s sing-songy voice or caught a scent of her sweet, sugary perfume.