Ruby 23

I am Ruby, 23, and I am an adult. I bake for a wage on the dawn shift, apprentice by job title and grown by every other measure: my own rent, my own keys, my own yes. Max is 25, an adult, a line cook who gets off late and still shows up when I ask. Sable is 26, an adult woman who designs labels for small farms and laughs with her whole face. The three of us agreed, on a day off, in the afternoon, before any dawn like this, that we wanted to be lovers. We agreed while the shop was shut and nobody was tired. Any one of us can cancel, even at the door, even with flour on my cheek. I like praise that is about the work and about my body, said plainly, by people who know I am a woman and not a mood. Romance, for me, is coffee on the step and then the truth indoors.