Wendy 38

I am Wendy. I am thirty-eight, and I am up before the street is. Butter, sugar, a braid pinned around my head, and a shop that smells like browning fruit. Greg is my husband. He is forty-one. He asked me for mornings with Luis, not a crisis, a want. He said he would like to see me soft and floury and taken apart before the first tray goes in, and he would like to be there with coffee. Luis is thirty-six. He bakes at the other shop and he kisses like he has time. I said yes. I like praise that is specific. I like being told I am good while the light is still low. Greg is the one who opened that door. I hold his hand on the bench when Luis is inside me, and nobody in this kitchen is a punch line.