"That actually makes scientific sense."
"I'm so relieved to have your approval."
"You don't need my approval."
"Good, because you're not getting any more of my dough."
"That seems harsh."
"You turned my pastry into adhesive."
"It was an accident."
"It was a catastrophe."
This time, she stood beside him, guiding him verbally rather than physically, which was both better and worse for his concentration. Better because he couldn't feel her warmth, worse because he kept glancing at her and losing track of what his hands were doing.
"Eyes on the dough, Mr. Fletcher."
"My eyes are on the dough."
"Your eyes are on me."
"You're next to the dough. Proximity confusion."
"That's not a real thing."
"It could be."
"It's not."
"You seem very certain about that."
"I'm certain about many things."
"Such as?"
"That you're going to add too much water again if you don't pay attention."
He looked down to find he was indeed about to repeat his earlier mistake. "You're distracting me."
"I'm standing here quietly."
"Quietly is relative."
"I'm not making any noise!"
"Your presence is noisy."
"That doesn't even make sense."
"It does in my head."
"Your head seems like a complicated place."
"You have no idea."
This batch of pastry was marginally better; it at least resembled dough rather than glue. Marianne deemed it "acceptable for a first attempt, if we're being very generous with our definitions."
