A simple love story, with bread.

my humble entry for birdie's thursday writing essential on the subject of food. be gentle, dear friends. this is my first attempt at anything bigger than a poem and i'm a might sensitive about it. i also know it needs some work so any suggestions will be duly and gratefully noted.

Baking. It is the part of her life that no one seems to fully understand. The obsession, the hours, the effort, the sleepless nights. The insatiable desire for more knowledge, more recipes, more variations, each earlier and more authentic than the last. The belief in the artisan ethic of tradition, attention to detail, ingredients with quality and integrity, and pride in the craft. They humor her, roll their eyes, taste with some vague appreciation, but they never feel it where she does. It is lodged deep, trapped somewhere amidst the electricity of her spine, the heat of her solar plexus, and the darkness of her heart. When she bakes, the concentration elicited is near bliss, a meditative effect which blocks all other sensation. The finished product is not like offspring, but more of a clone, a part of her that is removed, shaped, baked, and offered to the willing.

Her boyfriend may have understood better than most, but his grasp was still lacking. He ate the goods, murmured appreciatively, then swung his attention back to the television. He accused her of being too serious about it, about everything, and always told her to relax.

Her co-workers were hopeless. Once she bought a pre-made confection at a discount store, plated it, and offered it without comment. They immediately assumed it was hers and devoured it with the same attention granted to something she spent days on.

* * *

The food issue was big that year, and she flipped though it without hope of finding anything of interest. When she saw the name of his bakery, her eyes went out of focus for a second. Scanning the article, she shook her head involuntarily. Too good to be true, she thought. He is young but has immersed himself completely, focusing on proper methods and organic ingredients, is passionate about the 18^th century, plays the fiddle. The fiddle? Who the hell calls it a fiddle anymore? She did. And it is the only instrument she ever wanted to play, ever regretted not learning as a child. The fiddle, she mused. She gazed at the photo of him bent over the rising bowl, a hat pulled down over his dark hair, face shining with the pride he took in his work. She closed the magazine and threw it in the blanket chest. She pushed him out of her head.

* * *

It is two years later and she is close to his bakery but refuses the memory of his existence to enter her conscious mind. She is at an encampment of French and Indian war reenactors, shopping the suttler’s tents when she smells it. Bread. Down the row she sees the clay bake oven and she cannot hold back the memory of him. He built it. He is baking in it. She slowly walks towards it, afraid to see him, afraid to taste his creation. Relief washes over her as she reaches the table piled high with loaves and the girl behind it tells her that he won’t be back until later. She buys the biggest loaf: a five-pounder, a dark dense crusty mountain loaf that smells of grain, earth and smoke. It is, in fact, too big to fit in any of the bags they have so the girl cuts it in half. Seeing it being cut, hearing the crust strain against the knife raises bumps on her skin. She steps back because she does not want to smell the interior yet, does not want to inhale the vapors in front of this stranger.

Taking the loaf, she moves away from the crowds. She needs to be alone with it. She sits beneath an enormous maple tree and cautiously removes it from its wrapping. It is stunning. The scent wafts from the exposed flesh – it is sour and dizzying. She moves very slowly, the anticipation growing to a painful buzz that cramps her muscles. She rips off a piece, catching the crumbs in her lap. Her eyes close, her ears no longer register the noise from the crowd, her mouth waits impatiently for the spongy interior to touch her tongue. When it finally does, she knows that the review she read of the bakery, its owner, and his bread were not exaggerated. They were understated. He is a genius. His soul is in this bread, the knowledge he has gleaned from trips across the ocean and sleepless nights are pulsing beneath this crust. It has the complexity of a good wine, the depth of the finest varietal chocolate, the comfort of a blazing fire on a frozen night. She devours nearly a quarter of the loaf before stopping herself. She must save some for the days to come. Everyday she will pull off a bit and savor his talent. Him, who is unknown and unseen by her. But she saves the last piece, dries it in a slow oven and keeps it on the shelf.

She forces herself to forget him for the summer. She will not be able to make the trip until the leaves begin to color, so why torture herself in the intervening months? She passes the saved piece, visits it with a closed mind, allows herself to appreciate it but not think from whence it came.

When green finally turns to gold, she makes the trip with her boyfriend. It feels like a pilgrimage to her, but is tempered by the unknown. A fleeting thought is batted away a million times: what if he is not who she thinks he should be? What if conceit predominates? What if he is rude, angry or cold? What if this life he lives is not a reflection of his soul, but a way to gain praise? Her boyfriend asks her many times if she is all right. She is deeply distracted, but her answer is always the same: yes, fine, thank you.

She drives through the village and sees him sitting at a table in front of the bakery. Head bowed, he reads a newspaper and holds a cup of steaming coffee in his hand. His hair is dark and tousled and covering his face from view. She pulls into the parking lot beside the building. She draws in as much air as her lungs will hold, gets out of the car and walks toward the door. He does not look up until she has passed, but she can hear him and her boyfriend exchange greetings.

The girl behind the counter recognizes her voice, asking if she called the week before. She had. She felt better checking the hours and asking what time she should arrive to get a good selection. She buys one of everything he has made that day, including a beautiful gingerbread molded into the shape of a woman in colonial dress. As she helps the girl place the loaves in bags, he walks in. She turns her back and every muscle in her body tenses simultaneously. If he notices, he does not react. She moves to the door and slides out before she is tempted to speak to him. She is not ready to know.

At home she wraps each delicate loaf in many layers to keep them safe. She handles them with honor. She handles them with love. She keeps the gingerbread on the counter where she can take a piece with her to work every morning. She wants to hold something he crafted, to place on her tongue something he pressed his hands into, to breathe in the spices that he chose. She strains to taste him in every crumb.

She tries not to think of him but cannot forget the color of his hair or the muscle in his forearm or the curve of his back. Only a day has passed when she pens a letter. She writes it in longhand on fine linen paper. She writes it quickly before fear overtakes her and she tears it up. It is heartfelt, but cautious. She also sends him music that she hopes will reach him where her words could not. She posts it. Then waits.

It is nearly a month before a reply arrives. He is humbled by her praise, fascinated by their commonalities, but seems wary of the implications. In it he asks questions thus prompting the correspondence to continue. Would she like to? Yes.

Months of letters pass. They have a natural symmetry. They learn more likes and dislikes, tentatively test the other’s sense of humor. They share brief histories, beliefs and confidences. He appears to be the person she had hoped he would be: kind, generous, intelligent, thoughtful, funny. But it is so easy to shape yourself on paper; only a face-to-face meeting will reveal the truth. So, when her stash runs out, she plans a trip. He wants her to spend days, but she will not commit.

She makes the drive again. This time she has no human companion, but fear occupies the seat beside her and pokes at her with confidence and condescension. You think he’s something special? it taunts. You think he’s really who he seems on paper? Do you believe that he hasn’t created an irresistible persona like you did? You really think he’ll find you attractive? She balls her fist and smacks it against the passenger’s seat. She doesn’t think she can survive being disappointed by him. She doesn’t know how she’d remain vertical if a shadow crosses his eyes when he sees her. As in many people’s lives, there have been too many disappointments, too many insignificant gestures and words. She needs this to be real. She needs him to be the answer to a question that she cannot put words to.

As she gets closer to the bakery, anxiety seizes her. Her skin feels too tight on her bones, her lungs have no capacity for oxygen, her blood has turned icy. She knows she cannot avoid his gaze this time. She must be seen by him. She drives past the bakery and does not see him. She musters all of her strength, parks her car, then turns the rear view mirror to reflect her face. She looks startled and pale. She gently slaps her cheeks and gets out of the car.

The walk to the door seems endless, the crunch of the rocks beneath her feet deafening. She opens the door and is relieved to see that there are customers crowding the room who she can hide behind. She sneaks in and peeks around the bodies to find him, but she only sees the girl behind the counter. She straightens up and relaxes in this respite she has been gifted. She turns to look on the shelves and is considering walking back out the door when feels a hand on her arm that pulls her behind the counter and into the kitchen.

She looks only at the ground, afraid to meet his eyes. The floor is splattered with flour and grain. The wooden legs of the tables are darkened with age. The room is quiet where they stop. Her head is still tilted down even though their shoes are toe to toe. He places two fingers beneath her chin and gently raises her face to meet his. She lifts her eyes, gradually moving up from his scuffed shoes, baggy pants, linen apron, t-shirt, bare collar and neck, stubbled chin, full mouth slightly upturned at the corners. His hair is still disheveled. His eyes are dark, warm and serious. She cannot remove her gaze from them. She stares at them as she would a light in the sky which strobes with all the colors of the universe.

He lowers his hand and wraps it around hers. A smile spreads over his face as he registers her nervousness.

“It is you, right?” he asks, still smiling.

She nods, but remains silent.

“Are you ok?”

She nods again.

“You are beautiful.”

She swallows.

He laughs. “Would you like to sit?”

She shakes her head and continues to stare into his eyes.

He inhales deeply. As he speaks, she smells the sweetness of his breath. “What kind of greeting am I allowed?”

She furrows her brow. “What?”

He laughs again. “I knew a stupid question would force you to speak.”

She starts to smile but stops when he leans towards her. She closes her eyes and both desires and fears his lips reaching hers. His other hand reaches around behind her and presses on the small of her back. She stiffens. If he tells her to relax, she will walk away and never return.

“I have to,” he whispers.

She exhales quietly and allows her hands to move to his shoulders. He is not a large man, but they are square and strong.

His mouth finally settles on hers, lips slightly parted. There is no urgency, just comfort. She can hardly believe that this moment is here, this contact that she has been so desperate for is finally being made. She draws solace from his warmth and allows it to flow through her veins, thawing as it moves through her, bringing her back to life.

He pulls back and surveys her face, relieved to see that it has softened. He eases her into an embrace and feels her push into him, arms wrapped tightly, breath synchronized. He tries not to think of the boyfriend. He remembers seeing him when she first visited, but he did not see her. He does not tell her this. He always considered himself an honorable man, but his will is cracking. She is different. She is worth breaking rules and promises for.

After a minute, he cautiously releases her with a vague fear that he will never feel her again, that she will disappear if he does not have constant contact with her skin. He steps back from her.

He does not ask her what she wants, but walks to the kitchen and returns with a hot cup of tea. She takes it from him gratefully and waits for him to speak.

“What would make you happy?” he asks.

She does not need to think about the answer. “Milling,” she says.

“Ok.” He is not surprised by her response. From anyone else it would seem an odd request, but not from her.

He leads her to another room where bags of whole grain are piled. There is an ancient wooden mill waiting for her. She examines it and unconsciously begins to remove excess clothing. He takes her jacket and overshirt as she peels them off and lays them over a nearby chair.

“Stand here,” he says and positions her in front of the mill. He tilts the grain into the hopper then moves behind her. All of her awareness is focused on his body so close to hers, his breath on her neck. He reaches his arm around her, places his hand over hers and lifts it to the handle. Slowly they turn it, waiting for the huge granite stones to pulverize the first grains. He sees a smile lift her cheek as the taupe powder finally begins to fall. There are fine lines at the corner of her eye. She is a few years older than him, but seems childlike in her wonder. He is reminded of himself the first time he performed this task.

He feels a stirring in his chest. For a short time he had hoped that she would be physically unappealing. But he knew it wouldn’t have mattered. Through her letters he had discovered her core. The attraction lay beyond the simple and inadequate terms of beauty.

He thinks he should step back, but he has waited so many months to have her here. He has imagined what the first meeting would be like, but cannot remember what scenarios came to him. All he knows is the familiar sound of the mill and the heat rising from her skin. She smells like an undiscovered woodland flower. He wants to continue this innocent, intimate movement with her for as long as she will allow.

She leans into him and ignores the pressure of the existence she has chosen – she knows she must return home in two days time. The thought of sitting at her desk working for and with anyone other than him is unbearable. She wants to stay right here forever, standing on this tile, with his body pressed against hers, his mouth so close to her ear, their hands circling endlessly. If he asked, she would say yes to anything right now. She would be his slave, nothing would be beneath her, nothing would be too difficult or too mundane. To be part of his work and part of his life is all that matters. He is the gift of a lifetime and she refuses to give him back.

“I need to refill the till,” he says quietly, but does not move.

“Mmm hmm.”

He laughs again, realizing that he hasn’t felt so light and happy in a long time.

She wonders if he’s laughing at her and turns around to look. When she looks into his eyes, she sees joy. She smiles, but suddenly realizes that neither of them has moved and their faces are inches apart.

“Well, it could wait until tomorrow,” he says, gesturing towards the mill.

She does not respond immediately. And when she finally speaks, her words startle him. “I will do anything you want me to.”

“Anything?” he asks without intimation.

She nods.

He takes her hand and leads her behind the oven, out of sight. He never reached this point in his imagination so he was moving on pure instinct. He pushes her against the warm stone wall and searches her eyes for any sign of doubt or apprehension. When he sees none, he kisses her deeply. It is a long, warm kiss that makes them both slightly dizzy. He pulls back and studies her again. Still nothing but that curious look of surprise she’s had since she first walked in. He needs to feel her skin now, needs to feel her react to his touch. He reaches under her shirt, his work-roughened hands harsh against her smooth back. One hand moves around her waist to graze her belly. He notices that she is holding her breath. He kisses her again and moves his hand to the swell of her breast. This movement makes her exhale into his mouth and he pulls it deep into his lungs. She raises her arms above her head and grabs the uneven stone. His hands do not linger in any one place but run over as much of her body as he can reach without pulling his lips from hers.

She knows he does not want to push her, does not want to do anything that would make her uncomfortable. She wants to tell him that he can do anything, that she wants him to do everything, but her voice has vanished. Instead she pulls away and reaches for his hand. He understands. He grabs their coats and leads her out the back door.

She does not know how they reach his house, they are just there. Time and space no longer matter. He hurriedly unlocks the door, throws their coats aside and leads her up the stairs. The dusky sky outside stains the walls damson. His bedroom is just as she imagined it, when she allowed herself to think this far. It feels like home. He feels like home.

They both lose their inhibitions and their patience once the door shuts behind them. They fumble with buttons and kick and wrestle out of their clothes. He pulls the quilt down, pushes her onto the bed and lies next to her. Her hands finally seek him out, fingers tangled in his hair as she pulls his lips to hers. The kiss has more heat than at the bakery. She lets her hands run down his neck, his shoulders, his back, fluttering over each muscle.

His hands disappear in her dark hair, pulling her head back until her neck is long and smooth. A soft kiss landing on her open mouth moves down her throat to the crevice below her collar, the valley between her breasts, the soft plain of her belly. With others she had always covered her eyes with her arm, ashamed and afraid. But he is different. He is not having her or using her, he is honoring her, absorbing her, learning her. She speaks his name and it is like honey on her tongue.

He treats her body with the same care and affinity that he shows his dough. She feels such a strong desire for him, and an overpowering love that takes her by surprise. She knows at that moment that she has loved him since first she saw his name on the page, and it has grown with each thought, each movement. Now that love moves from her mind and heart into her cells and transforms into a force that slams over her body in waves. Blood pounds under her skin and tears roll down her flushed cheeks as she releases the emptiness of a lifetime into the wind.

He does not move until she is still, then he lifts himself so he can look into her eyes again. They are bright and narrowed with longing and restoration. He presses his hand into the indentations of her body, runs his fingers along the ridges of bone, seeks out and explores the dark crevices. He never knew that two bodies could conform so ideally. This moment, this shared space and pulse is all there is. Their movement together is fluid and natural, like finally returning to the ocean one has been away from for so long. And when he can wait no more, the life rushes from him, to her, and his breath is lost.

Their lovemaking continues into the early hours of the morning, nearing the time when he would rise if it were a baking day. They finally slow from physical exhaustion, although desire is still pricking their skin. They hold each other as they would a life preserver, afraid that one will float away if they let go. When she cannot hold back sleep any longer, she kisses his shoulder and allows her eyes to close.

As she lies beside him, he runs his fingers over her face, arms, torso, familiarizing, memorizing. Now he knows how she looks when asleep, and he will soon know how it feels to sleep with his cheek pressed against her skin. He feels both vulnerable and satiated. And when there is safety in the slow evenness of her breath, he gives voice to the stillness and whispers the words that give her his heart.