First, Finally, and Forever

Turnovers

With each separation of the layers in the dough, her life’s passion unfolded before her, as always, in a simple, yet significant moment. How she loved the feel of the many-layered Phyllo under her hands, buttered and ready. Already she had made danishes and brioche with the same dough batch, the aroma of fresh-baked butter and sugar wafting, giving her that familiar contact high of energy.

Her feet throbbed, her arms burned as she hefted the sheet of dough over onto the floured cutting table, a massive smile to her ruddied face. But oh! The ache was good! It was real! What would she do if not this? What would she be if not this?

She looked at the glowing green clock, high up on the wall. It read 3:08, and then changed silently to 3:09. These turnovers had to be done by five, and as she picked up the pastry cutter, she put one hand on the back of her neck and cracked it. She couldn't disappoint all the hungry breakfast people, now could she?

"Time to rise and shine!" she shouted happily into the empty kitchen, her voice bouncing off the bread mixer, the double door fridge, the big steel basin sink, the enormous ovens in a row on the far side of the expanse. She beamed, listening to the echo, the pastry cutter zinging along, slicing perfectly pressed pastry dough into neat, tidy squares.

 In the dim glow of the fluorescent lights, she cut, folded, filled, and placed, humming and singing off-key, dancing to her own sound track. As she brushed the butter and egg on top of the pastries, she flipped the silicone brush with the flair of a Cordon Bleu master, dabbing with the enthusiasm of someone who loved their job. She danced with a complete disregard for form or function, unless happiness could be considered one or the other.

As she danced, and sang, and laughed, he watched her from the side of the windows facing in. He watched her laughing, spinning with bowls of custard, and raspberries. He felt her joy at every moment, her apron a medley of chocolate and buttery finger wipes. She had flour on the tip of her nose, and wisps of hair escaped around her cheeks, dusted ever so slightly white. He wanted to be there with her, absorb the energy she had for life first-hand, instead of through glass. He once had that, long ago.

She had stolen his heart the first morning he caught her, and ever since, he had gone to bed, anticipating the next, seeing her, watching her, working beside her. He had loved her from that moment, he knew. He wanted to lie across the large wooden counter with her, covered in butter and sugar, just to hold her as she laughed, hear her exclaim as they made love. His dreams were filled with her sparkling eyes and happy voice.

If he bit into a pastry she had made, he could taste her happiness. He could imagine her making them, her hands and feet dancing.

He looked at his watch. Four AM. He sighed, tied on his own apron, and pressed his palm to the door to walk in. Her dancing and singing would stop the moment he arrived, her passion settling to professional baker, happy employee. He wanted so badly to tell her to keep working with wings on her feet and mischief in her eye. But, he was afraid of what she would say.

He flipped the high switch to turn on the remainder of the lights, signalling his entrance, giving her the time she needed to land into the real world again. The world he wished he could leave behind, and stay in hers a few moments longer.

"Good morning, Boss!"

"Good morning, Alice."