“Good,” I say. “So do we.”
Gwen gives me a look, half amused and half fond, like she is humoring my motivational poster tendencies.
We fall into our rhythm.
Gwen hits the coffee machine button like it is a ceremonial act.
“Bless you,” I mutter, and she does not even look up.
She slides me a mug. Black. One sugar. No questions. No fuss.
I take the first sip. It is terrible, like always, and I love it anyway because it is consistent. It is there.
“You’re in early,” I say, watching her peel parchment off a butter block.
“You seemed stressed last night,” Gwen says, like she is reading from a report. “I figured I could either show up ten minutes late and see you miserable, or show up ten minutes early and see you miserable.”
“That is very supportive,” I laugh.
“I am supportive in the way a seatbelt is supportive,” she says. “Restraining. Necessary.”
I chuckle, and it feels like the first real breath I have taken today.
I check the proof on yesterday’s brioche. It is domed and puffy, ready to bake. Gwen pokes it like she is testing a marshmallow.
The oven's heat hits me in the face when I open the door. It is a sharp, dry warmth that makes my eyes water and my shoulders relax at the same time. Like a sauna that wants to cook you alive.
I load the trays. Close the door. Set the timer.
At 5:10, Gwen starts humming along to the radio. Off key. She always hums. I used to find it annoying. Now it is like a lighthouse sound. If Gwen is humming, the world has not ended yet.
At 5:30, she starts talking to the dough.
“Don’t be like that,” she mutters, coaxing the butter into a clean rectangle. “We talked about this.”
“We absolutely did not,” I say, sliding another bowl onto the scale.
“She knows what she did,” Gwen replies, dead serious.
I smile despite myself and keep working.
At 5:45, the first tray goes into the oven.
Steam whooshes. Heat blooms. The smell changes instantly, from warm butter and sugar to dough turning into something more.
“This,” Gwen says, hands on her hips, “is going to be a good bake.”
“You say that every day.”
“And statistically,” she replies, “I am not wrong.”
The front lights flip on. The OPEN sign hums to life, a soft neon buzz like an invitation.
We take our positions. I go up front. Gwen stays back. Same division of labor as always. I handle the people. Gwen handles the chaos.
I am built for the front because I am better at swallowing the urge to commit minor crimes when someone asks if we have gluten-free croissants.
The bell jingles at 6:01 a.m.
