“I stood there for a full minute debating whether I could pretend it was intentional,” I add.
She laughs, a real laugh, sudden and unguarded. It does something to my chest I’m not prepared for.
“And?” she asks. “Could you?”
“No,” I say. “It tasted like regret.”
Her smile lingers. “That’s a very specific flavor.”
“I’m developing a sensitivity to it,” I say dryly.
She studies me over the rim of her glass. “You care about the bread.”
It’s not an accusation. It’s an observation.
“I do,” I say. “I didn’t expect to. But I do.”
She nods slowly. “That part… sneaks up on you.”
We fall into a rhythm after that. Talking about hydration percentages, flour suppliers, and how dough behaves differently depending on the weather, the room, and the mood of the person touching it.
She talks with her hands when she’s explaining something technical. I notice. I notice everything, the furrow of her brow when she’s thinking through a problem, the softness in her voice when she talks about apprentices, even when she’s pretending not to.
“At the end of the day,” she says, “the work tells you the truth. You can’t bluff it. You can’t spin it. You show up, or it shows you where you messed up.”
I nod. “It’s unforgiving.”
“It’s honest,” she corrects gently.
I let that sit.
“Do you ever think about doing something else?” I ask carefully. “Not because you want to leave. Just… because the days are long.”
She shakes her head without hesitation. “No.”
Not defensive. Not dramatic. Certain.
“I think about resting,” she adds. “About making it sustainable. But I’ve never wanted to be anywhere else.”
I swallow. “I envy that.”
She tilts her head. “Do you?”
“Yes,” I say. “Because it means when something goes wrong, you don’t question whether the whole thing was a mistake.”
She’s quiet for a moment. “You still question that?”
“All the time,” I admit.
She doesn’t reach for me. She doesn’t try to fix it. She just says, “That sounds exhausting.”
“It is.”
Another pause. Comfortable now. Earned.
“You know,” she says slowly, “when my parents’ place failed, it wasn’t just the money. It was the silence afterward. The not knowing what to do with your hands.”
I nod. “That part scares me.”
