The mouth of the nozzle is too wide. Carrie bites her lower lip in concentration. The lines of icing are too fat, making the letters smash into each other. There won't be room on the cake. She decides to leave it just a lopsided 'welcome', omitting the 'home'.
Her palms are sweating and she wipes them on her apron, catches sight of herself in the mirror. Her face is impassive. She should feel full of joy, feel the anticipation of his presence spread through her like sunshine. But she doesn't.
She always was a cold fish. She used to practise the appropriate expressions in the mirror, letting a smile or a scowl slide across her face. The corners of her mouth wouldn't turn up no matter what she did. She studied the details of her face with the same intensity she applied to putting on eye liner or icing the cake. Same poor result.
She felt things, she knew she did. It's just that they were the wrong things, or they got twisted up inside her. Sometimes her face was wrong and her exterior could never convey what she was feeling. Sometimes she couldn't identify the feeling at all, could not translate it beyond a sick churning feeling in her stomach. Sometimes she could only identify them as feelings in retrospect.
She checked the clock. She smoothed her hair. She smoothed her face of all wrinkles and then pasted on a smile. He would be here soon and she repeated those words to herself like a chant.