I knew you wanted a traditional brownie, so I began with flour, a pretty standard ingredient as far as baked goods go. When mixed with water, flour coagulates into a structural protein called gluten which acts as a scaffold around which we can construct a great palace of delectable confections, not unlike the role played by mutual respect in a romantic relationship.  
Then I added the eggs, the seeds of life around which love congeals like gelatinous strands of albumen do when heated to 325 degrees F.  I got a whiff of something rancid when I cracked open the shells, but the sell-by-date wasn’t yet two weeks away, so I shrugged and carried on.  
Next I added whole milk and cocoa powder, because my family recipe—a fairly standard one despite how sub-par the results tended to be—called for them. These ingredients add creaminess and the flavor of chocolate, and not a little bit of bitterness, longing for mother, and stinging regret (due to biochemical properties of lactose’s chemical structure and unexplained phenomenology of the cocoa bean).
It was then time to add the finishing touches—a strangely die hard love of Katy Perry, Stephen Colbert, and Harry Potter fan fiction—which I tolerated but could never quite connect with.   I withheld the Velvet Underground because you said their music sounded like noise, and plus why were they singing about bondage? Nor did I add the Richard Linklater movie, “Before Sunrise,” because you said it was boring and had no plot, that it was just a conversation, even though that’s what I loved about it, two people just talking and, more importantly, listening, falling in love over words.
Next, I baked the mixture for over a year, and that was probably six months too long.  Surprisingly it didn’t burn—barely warmed up at all, actually—though somehow the result did pass for cake-like chocolate treats. At least, that’s what people told me.
Finally, I unveiled the tin and your face lit up with delight.  “I love them, Victor,” you said. I was glad to make you happy. It gave me a sort of dutiful contentment, for a time.  
What I didn’t say was that the smell made of the brownies me gag—something was off, maybe the eggs had gone putrid?—and by combining all these ingredients together I suddenly realized I had breathed life into a dead thing, tried to anyway, but that reanimation can only go so far, and then you smiled so sweet and the spark plugs appeared and the sight of it all made me sick to my stomach.