I’m a variable in whatever equation he’s solving.
Maybe a threat.
Maybe nothing.
The bakery doorbell jingles with all the cheerful irony of a death knell. I step inside, and the warm cloud of butter, flour, and sugar hits me like a memory of safety. For nearly two seconds, I remember what it’s like to breathe without my ribs feeling like they’re made of glass.
Then reality crashes back in the form of Marge Whitaker.
“You’re late, Emmaleen.”
Marge stands behind the counter, a human roadblock, arms crossed over her chest. She’s a squat, scowling monument to bitterness, approximately five feet of concentrated disappointment wrapped in a flour-dusted apron. Her voice has the textural quality of someone who’s been gargling gravel and regret for sixty years. Her black pants aren’t so much worn as they are resigned to their fate—dusted with flour not from actual effort but from proximity to it, like she absorbs ingredients through osmosis while directing others to do the actual work.
“The almond croissants should have been laminated twenty minutes ago.” She checks her watch with the theatrical precision of a bomb squad technician. “Bertha’s jammed again, and if those croissants aren’t ready for the mid-morning rush, we might as well go back to bed.”
Bertha is Sweet Dreams bakery’s ancient industrial mixer—a hulking metal beast from the Roosevelt administration with more personality disorders than a psych ward and the mechanical reliability of a carnival fortune teller. She breaks down at least once a week and requires a specific sequence of profanity and percussive maintenance to resurrect.
I slip past Marge toward the kitchen, already mentally calculating the precise angle at which to hit Bertha’s left panel while simultaneously jiggling the power cord.
“Not so fast.” Marge’s hand shoots out like a tollbooth barrier. “No croissants for you today.”
I freeze, one foot hovering in mid-air like a video game character whose controller just disconnected.
“You’ll be on pans and floors. Punishment detail for running late. And,”, she adds, gathering her voice into a hiss, “That little disaster at the hotel last night.” Her mouth twists like she’s just bitten into something sour. “You’ll help load the Hendrickson wedding cake for delivery later, but just loading, mind you. Not decorating. Cake decorating is an art form that requires both talent and reliability.”
The implication being that I possess neither.
“Sister Margaret practically begged me to give you this job.” Marge’s voice drops to a theatrical whisper, like we’re conspiring despite being the only two people in the kitchen. “Said you needed a fresh start. Said you had ‘potential.’” She air-quotes the word like it’s a communicable disease. “And then you go and break nearly a thousand dollars’ worth of crystal at the Riverview. Do you have any idea how that reflects on Sweet Dreams?”
I say nothing. My silence is deliberate—a shield, not surrender. In the six weeks I’ve worked here, I’ve learned that Marge’s verbal takedowns follow a predictable pattern, like a tennis ball machine set to “character assassination.” Arguing just resets the timer and adds fifteen minutes to the barrage.
“You’re a charity case, Emmaleen. You best remember that.”
I absorb the hit without flinching. My face settles into what my ex used to call my “nothing expression”—the blank canvas that revealed neither thought nor feeling. It used to infuriate him. It merely irritates Marge.
She waves me toward the kitchen like she’s shooing away a particularly persistent fly. “Pans. Floors. Now.”
Sighing, I give in to my morning’s fate.
The morning drags itself by withexcruciating slowness, each minute a glacial eternity as I scrub crusted batter from baking pans and attack stubborn flour stains on the worn linoleum.
The rhythmic circular motion of the mop becomes almost hypnotic—a mindless task that allows my thoughts to wander while my body performs the mechanical dance of servitude.
The industrial-strength cleaner stings my nostrils, its harsh chemical scent mingling with the lingering sweetness of vanilla and cinnamon that permeates every surface of Sweet Dreams.
My knees ache from kneeling to reach beneath the industrial mixers, and my fingertips are pruned from constant immersion in soapy water.
Still, there’s a certain peace in the monotony, a predictable safety in these mundane chores, which require nothing of me but physical endurance and the ability to become invisible.
My lunch break is non-existent—not sure you can even call the hurried three minutes in which I’m grudgingly allowed to use the restroom before being unceremoniously shoved toward the front counter a “break.”
Marge has barely tossed her purse over her shoulder, keys jingling in her hand as she announces her “absolutely critical errand” that can’t possibly wait, before pointing a flour-dusted finger at me. “Register’s yours. Don’t mess with the pricing.”
Her tone makes it clear this isn’t a request but a decree from on high, delivered with all the warmth of a February blizzard.
The register duty is mind-numbing—fake smiles for customers who barely look up from their phones, countingchange with mechanical precision, reciting the same rehearsed pleasantries until the words lose all meaning.
Marge returns with suspicious timing, just as the afternoon rush dies down. I’m immediately conscripted into what is clearly the day’s main attraction: loading the infamous wedding cake that’s been consuming the bakery’s attention all week.