writing practice - marzipan

marzipan
you find yourself in a room with no doors. the floor has a pattern of white and black tiles, one diamond black tile between four square white tiles. it repeats from wall to wall. the walls are painted black with white wainscoting. black iron gas lamps adorn each wall. the plaster moulding on the ceiling mirrors the wooden wainscoting along the walls in design.
a black counter protrudes from one wall near the back of the room. upon it are tiered displays with small cakes and chocolates, and at the end nearest the wall, a brass mechanical register stands. the smell of almonds and pastry fill the air.
a young woman stands behind the register. she looks young, impossibly slight and small framed, but speaks clearly with the voice of an adult. she is wearing a black dress with a removable white collar. the collar looks like lace, but when you look closer it is carefully cut cotton fabric made in simulacrum of lace. you suspect she has never tasted the sweets she sells, nor much of anything else.
the woman offers you a sample, the smallest slice of their new recipe of cake. you graciously accept. it tastes overwhelmingly of sugar and vanilla and almond, and your senses are offended and overwhelmed by the cloying sweetness of it. you've never had something so rich and extravagant in flavour, and when you've finished your sample you immediately crave more. you're not sure why, as it was not entirely pleasant, but you order a serving.
there is a table, legs of the same black iron as the lamps, top a white ceramic, similar to the floor but with smaller tiles. you sit upon a black iron chair and gently press your fork into the cake.
the young woman stands dutifully behind the register, watching you without looking directly at you. she gives the impression of staring at the black wall, but you notice her shift ever so slightly when you move.
you offer her the first taste of the cake upon your fork. "i've already had some," you explain, holding it up to her. "i won't miss a bite." she shakes her head, politely declining.
"there's no one here to see, no one to take issue with you trying a small taste," you guess, gesturing around the sparse and fully encapsulated room. "we're alone."
she looks mildly uncomfortable and declines again, telling you to enjoy your purchase.
"your loss." you shrug as you take the bite into your mouth. as you taste the sickly sweet confection a second time, you realize you haven't paid for this cake. you check your pockets, but the only thing you find are some bits of string. she notices you patting down your hips and realizes that you've realized, her eyes widening, her lips parting into a circle of shock.
the white tiles turn grey, then black. the wainscoting and plaster ceiling do the same. the faux lace collar the woman is wearing darkens to matching the dress, and her skin and eyes and the cakes and plates and fork are overtaken by the shadow of darkness as well.
everything is black.
you grip the fork in one hand, and feel the cool tiles of the table under your other hand.
you open your eyes. you hadn't realized they were closed. you find yourself in your bedroom, sitting on your bed. you look at your hands. the cool tiles under one hand has become your own leg. you flex your fingers slightly, and you feel the skin press under them. you're not sure how you could have mixed up the soft, warm, yielding flesh for something so cold and hard and solid.
in your other hand is a silver fork, a sliver of almond cake resting gently upon it.