The bread ought to be ready for afternoon. It was terrible decision to leave it for the morning, but we’ve made it together when we’ve chosen to do other things.
I stood at the entrance afraid to brake his focus, afraid to see in his eyes the truth about what we did, about what has changed between us.
His hands kneaded the dough too gently to make it work. The regular certainty in his hands disappeared. Still, stubbornly he focused his attention on the shallow moves. He has not been present in that moment, his mind far away.
Food hates lack of focus. So many things can go wrong, the dough might not prove, might not bake evenly, it might turn rock hard…
Why isn’t he looking at me? Is he avoiding my glance?
The tension washed over his body and the movement on the dough grew weaker still.
Food is the witness, it takes all you give, takes it all in and then gives it back. Bad things will make a bad meal, good things will always taste great.
Am I a bad meal? Am I a regret? Is he searching for excuses? Am I?
He looked at me with the smile that belongs to me, with the lips that I kissed last night.
I shivered when I realized I want to kiss them again.
He looked back at the dough, with tension restricting his normally confident body.
Would he like to kiss me again? Will he ever try?
I felt my bones tied to the doors, aching to move, but unable to. I held them in place with fear, but I’ve grown tired of feeling ashamed of wanting, tired of quietly waiting.
I felt tired of waiting for my life to happen.
My first step felt heavy and shy. It was not too late to turn back to my loneliness, not too late to leave the man in peace.
His hands stopped all together as he waited for my next move.
I took a step towards him, then another until I could embrace his body with my greedy fingers.
“Can I help you?” I climbed on my toes and kissed his cheek.
“You already do.”
His moves filled with the strength he lacked before. The bread will be just fine.