“Mrs. Collins?”
Becca, my girl’s bestie. She’s off to CIA next year and she’s helping me bake bread today.
The kitchen is filled with sunshine, giggles, and vibrant, yeasty life.
“Now, my sweet, we must wait.” I put my powdery arm around her shoulder, holding her close.
Turning, her eyes search mine. The kiss is sudden and short, more question than statement to me.
My answering kiss is emphatic, fingers kneading her breast to underscore my fermented desire.
I’ve waited so long for this sweet dough to rise.
The baker’s bench serves as our proving bed, flour our vestal veil.
