The dough is alive. It is fickle. Tess is right, you have to listen to it. If I am angry, I tear it. If I am hesitant, it sticks to me like glue. If I am distracted, the structure collapses, and my boule turns into a sad, wet pancake.
I have to be present.
I have to be gentle but firm.
I have to focus.
Gwen arrives with her usual clatter and peers over my shoulder. I manage to shape three small boules. They are lumpy. My seams are messy. At best, they are a solid C.
“Huh”, she says, grabbing an espresso. “You’re still here. And you haven’t set anything else on fire. I’m impressed.”
I grunt. My focus is entirely on the mass of dough in front of me. I am trying to get the tension right, trying to create that smooth, taut skin Tess produces in three seconds. Mine is pockmarked.
“Thanks, Gwen”, I say.
“You still didn’t tell me how you knew my name before you met me”, she says, standing with her hand on her hip.
“You are nosey”, I laugh.
“She sure is”, Tess shouts from the kitchen.
I could tell her it was my assistant who saw her name in the investment documents, but somehow this seems more fun. I ignore Gwen for now and become obsessed with the pull.
Hours pass.
The bakery comes to life around me: the roar of ovens, the shush of the espresso machine, the murmur of customers, the ding of the front door. I am in my own world, back aching, hands stinging, entire being narrowed down to wet flour.
I am no longer a billionaire. I am no longer a businessman.
I am a man fighting a war against gluten.
Tess walks over and looks at my work.
“There’s hope”, she says softly. “Let me show you.”
Tess is explaining something. I know that because her mouth is moving. But I am not listening.
I am watching the way she gestures when she talks about the bakery, how her hands move like they are shaping the future in the air. How her voice changes when she is passionate. How she does not ask for permission to take up space.
She catches me staring.
“Leo”, she says sharply. “Are you with me?”
I snap back instantly. “Yes.”
She narrows her eyes. “What did I just say?”
I open my mouth. Nothing comes out.
Her expression shifts, not angry. Not amused. Curious.
“Oh”, she says softly. “You weren’t listening.”
“I was”, I lie, badly.
She watches me for a second longer, then shakes her head. “Go fold boxes.”
“Yes, boss,” I say automatically.
