The Despisement Theorem

02 || b a t t e r

For Lexi–a lost twin.

 

T W O || b a t t e r

batter (noun) - A mixture of flour, liquid, and other ingredients that is thin enough to pour.

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There was something vastly different about working at Pieradise on Mondays, something that made it very particular from the rest of the days.  It wasn't unsettling, wasn't like the feeling you'd usually get when the hustle and bustle of Friday would arrive at the doors of the bakery–the wind chime ringing as it did­, while you wait to be pulled into an endless vortex filled with tension and stress. It wasn't agitating, didn't stir up commotions or pandemoniums of any sort that would cause your heart rate to soar or your mind to go running off in different directions.  It wasn't terrible, wasn't anything likely that brought trouble to one's well-being or afflicted the strengths that a person cradled so deeply.

Instead, it was calm, serene­–like entering a cozy small-town café at the early crack of dawn, the aroma of coffee gliding into the air as you relish in the comforts of your own personal space; not having to worry the least, about any kinds of distraction or unwanted noise as you take a sip of your warm drink.

There were fewer customers who visited the bakery on a Monday compared to that of a Friday, and though that may mean that we also received fewer sales than what we usually did, it was wholly acceptable with us. At least on that day, there was no need to fret over multiple orders and no reason to deal with impatient, pastry-starved customers–enormously saving us employees from the eternal damage we usually obtained from the deadly Friday shift.

And it was also for that same reason, that Steph and I would usually go fooling around in the bakery, getting ourselves a few portions of the pastries when we thought no one was looking, before consequentially receiving  a few punishing pokes directed straight to the spleen when we realized that my dad did, in fact, see us. The other employees were surprisingly fine with our unorthodox antics as well, up to the point that they sometimes even chose to tag along with us.

It was all very exhilarating really, because it was in those times that I could feel my fondness for the bakery catapulting into an even greater height. It didn't feel as if I was working in an industrious little pastry shop as a laborer, but rather, felt as if I was just at home, at Pieradise, the place where my dad began his successful career, the place where my mom and dad fell in love, the place, where I spent most of my childhood memories in, both the good and the bad.

And it was thus from those previous occasions that Steph always knew what to expect from me when it was a Monday. I would normally be cheerful–laughing and smiling at nothing and everything in particular, joking and playing a few childish tricks on my oblivious but yielding dad, and on some better days, trying but obviously failing all my attempts at trying to bake a single dish of pie (ironically I can't bake for a baker's daughter).

So it was absolutely not surprising at all when Steph observed how different I was acting today–on a Monday. I was less enthusiastic than normal, less giddy than what Steph was used to, and all in all, just not the same Dani that was present on the second and most hated day of the week.

"Okay spill," Steph looked at me with a critical stare, and for a moment I suddenly felt exposed, raw. "You've been walking around like a zombie the whole time we've been here."

Ever since we've arrived at the bakery, I've taken to doing things with a little less power. I walked my way around as if I was merely just a ghost, something or someone visiting the land of the living, lifeless and empty, like a speck of dust hidden underneath the surface of an old mat. Nothing around me seemed to matter, nothing here present were of significance.  They all were just invisible objects sitting in the background, pointless and having no importance to be acknowledged anywise.