Baked Potato

"I'm finally home," I muttered, stepping into the silent abyss of my empty apartment.

It felt strange, living alone, but at least I had made it back safely.

It was getting late, and my stomach growled in protest.

Dinner had to be a simple affair, and nothing sounded more satisfying than a baked potato.

With a determined stride, I made my way to the kitchen, ready to conquer the culinary challenge ahead.

Taking my stance in front of the kitchen counter, I assumed a commanding posture.

My left hand extended forward, while my right hand curled into a defiant fist at my hip.

I grabbed a gleaming knife, its weight reassuring in my grip, and positioned it with precision over the potato.

Drawing upon my years of chef training and experience, I executed each cut with surgical precision.

The blade sliced through the potato's flesh effortlessly, creating a perfectly symmetrical X-shaped incision.

This was no ordinary cut—it was a work of culinary art.

Each arm of the X measured approximately two and a half centimeters, radiating from the center of the potato in a flawless cross shape.

And the depth? A meticulous one and a quarter centimeters, ensuring the potato's tender interior remained intact.

The sheer focus and determination I felt while wielding that knife was exhilarating.

I knew that this seemingly small action held the key to a triumphant outcome.

Satisfied with the X-shaped masterpiece I had created, I delicately placed the potato on the waiting baking tray, making sure not to disturb the meticulous incision.

With a graceful movement, I slid the tray into the fiery depths of the oven.

The scorching heat enveloped me, threatening to make me retreat, but I stood my ground.

I had faced this formidable opponent countless times before, and it wouldn't intimidate me now.

As the potato began its metamorphosis, a tantalizing aroma permeated the kitchen, teasing my senses.

The X-shaped cut allowed the steam to escape, ensuring a uniform cooking process.

Each passing minute fueled my anticipation, amplifying the joyous dance of flavors and textures that awaited me.

Soon, my patience would be rewarded with the ultimate prize—a mouthwatering, perfectly cooked baked potato.

Impatiently, I awaited, my heart throbbing in sync with the ticking of the clock.

A surge of excitement surged through my veins, elevating an ordinary evening into a magnificent odyssey.

Enchanting aromas filled the air, orchestrating a symphony of scents and a symphony of life, as I relished every second of this remarkable journey.

At long last, the moment of truth arrived.

With held breath, I retrieved the tray from the oven, feeling the radiant warmth permeate my fingertips.

And there it lay—a culinary masterpiece in all its glory.

The potato's gilded skin, caressed by the scorching heat, shimmered irresistibly.

With trembling hands, I gingerly split it open, revealing a cloud-like, steamy interior that beckoned me closer.

As I took my initial bite, an explosion of flavors danced upon my palate, a jubilant revelry of unadorned yet exquisite pleasure.

In that very instant, I realized that my solitary culinary escapades were anything but mundane.

They embodied a testament to the audacity of conquering the unknown, one baked potato at a time.

It is these small marvels that possess the power to make a profound difference, and as a chef, I take immense pride in wielding the knowledge and expertise necessary to craft a dish that is visually enticing and tantalizingly delicious.

With the baked potato now flawlessly cooked, I delicately place a modest pat of butter, weighing approximately two and a half grams, atop its crispy skin.

As the butter slowly melts and seeps into the potato, a profound sense of gratification envelops me.

The butter bestows a lavish creaminess to the already divine potato, elevating the overall flavor and texture to unparalleled heights.

With a spoon in hand, I cautiously excavate the pillowy flesh from within, savoring its texture that feels akin to a future lover, luxuriating in its almost ethereal dissolution upon contact with my palate. With each delectable bite, I relish the harmonious interplay of flavors and textures, the velvety richness of the butter perfectly complementing the inherent sweetness of the potato.

While indulging in the fruits of my labor, an overwhelming sense of accomplishment washed over me, filling my heart with joy and satisfaction.

Suddenly, a voice interrupted my thoughts, startling me.

"Hey cutie, that's a nice way to make a baked potato," it said.

I glanced around, realizing that I was the only one in the room.

"Thanks, I've been cooking for like ten years now," I replied, chuckling to myself.

"Wait, I'm still talking to myself inside my mind."

And then, unexpectedly, the voice spoke again.

"Hey, I can also use telepathy," it said.

To my astonishment, the cute succubus appeared within the reflection of a spoon.

My eyes widened in surprise, and I stumbled, falling from my chair.

Confused and bewildered, I managed to gather my thoughts.

"What do you want from me?" I asked, my voice trembling with a mix of curiosity and apprehension.

She looked at me, her eyes closed and her head slightly tilted to the left, wearing an adorable expression.

"Nothing in particular," she replied softly.

"I just want your love, dar...ling."

My mind raced with a combination of disbelief and skepticism.

"Alright, how do I even give this so-called 'love' you are talking about?" I questioned, my inner thoughts swirling in confusion.

"I just want this delusion to be over. How did I become insane like this? Is it because I don't have a girlfriend?"

"Don't worry about it," she reassured me.

"You are not delusional. You are special, at least to me, dar...ling."

Frustrated, I demanded, "Just tell me what you want."

"Touch my reflection with all of your fingers, and hold it for five seconds, and all your desires will be fulfille—" Her words were cut off as I obeyed her command without a second thought.

Suddenly, my mind went blank, and I collapsed onto the floor.

When I regained consciousness, I opened my eyes to find the succubus standing outside the spoon's reflection.

It dawned on me that I had succumbed to madness, overwhelmed by depression.

My body felt heavy, as if a weight was pressing down on me, and my peripheral vision seemed unusually vivid.

Was this the end for me?

I couldn't accept it—I was still a virgin; it couldn't end like this.

...

...

...

After what felt like an eternity, a faintly soft voice reached my ears, barely audible.

My senses felt dulled, as if my body was struggling to adjust to the surrounding environment, or perhaps I was losing my hearing.

Exhaustion consumed me, and I longed to surrender to sleep.

...

I'm just going to sleep.

"Hey... Hey! Stop sleeping, you stupid," the voice persisted, growing louder.

I recognized the voice but couldn't quite place it in my foggy state.

"Hey, it's me, Airi!" the voice exclaimed. I strained to recall, a hint of recognition flickering within me. I had met her before.

But the weariness overwhelmed me, and I succumbed to sleep once more.

She looked cute...