Break/Open

4. Body Language

Thud. Thud. Thud.

It was the only noise that permeated the music blaring in Nina's headphones as she raced against herself, catching up to the incline and speed of the treadmill running underneath her feet. This was the magical blend of noise that silenced her thoughts. The music and zealous rhythm of her sneakers beating against the belt, coupled with the faint whir of the treadmill.

All of that met an untimely interruption as the music in her ears faded out, and her ringtone faded in. Nina grimaced before flicking a finger at her screen to pick up the call that brought her out of her zone.
"Hi, Mama," she huffed into the mic dangling from her headphones, with no intention of slowing down.
"Why are you out of breath?" Salma Jordan was lifting a thin brow, and Nina knew it. It was often the slightest shifts in her expression that were the most alarming.
"I'm running," Nina increased the incline on the machine. "How's Marcus? Is he around?"
"I sent him out to get some things I need. For Christmas dinner," her mother responded with the same degree of exasperation her voice often carried at her son's mention.
"Keeping him busy, huh?" Nina laughed as she exhaled again, fueled by the overflow of her adrenaline.
"I thank God every day that I only have the two of you to worry about. You take all the energy out of me. One day I'll have none left," her mother dramatized, and Nina reached for the touchscreen to slow the treadmill.

"Speaking of Christmas dinner," Salma's tone shifted again. "Will Desmond be joining us?"
"It's just me and Johanna this year, Mama," Nina sped up the machine instead, changing her mind about slowing down.
"Nina," her mother said after a brief pause. "This is all so abrupt, I don't understand it. One day you're engaged to be married, and the next day - you're not. And you don't want to talk about it. You don't want to explain this to your own mother? This is Desmond we're talking about."
Nina gripped the handlebars in front of her, and hopped up onto the deck, leaving the belt running under her as her chest heaved up and down.

"Mama, I don't want to talk about it because I can't explain a feeling to you," she fought to say through her labored breathing. "I don't have a solid, logical explanation for why I broke an engagement, and broke up with the only man people see me being with. I don't have the answers you're looking for. I just have a feeling."
"A feeling." Salma repeated tersely, mulling the phrase, sounding unsatisfied with her daughter's oblique response.

"I'll see you in a few days, okay? We'll talk then," Nina interrupted before any more could be said. "Love you!"

The music was back in her ears, and the thud from the soles of hers sneakers punctuated the beat again. It took a few minutes for her thoughts to float away from her conscience, but her method never failed her. The noise silenced everything again.

***

"Shit!" Nina cursed as her two soufflés fell flat in their ramekins in slow motion. Her first batch had been overcooked, and the second had fallen apart, turning into unappealing eggy mush. She had spent the last few hours trying to formulate the right texture for the dessert. She wanted it airy, light, and fluffy, but rich and complex in flavor. And her latest version of the concoction was evidently too light to hold up.

She ripped out a page from her notebook, crumpling up the failed draft of the recipe she had been working on, and tossed it into a nearby bin. Just as she pushed the baking tray aside, giving the ramekins one last scorned look, she heard a knock on the glass at the front of the bakery. She peeked out of the kitchen and over the main counter, and then wiped her hands on her apron as she made her way to the door. She pointed at the sign hovering above her head, and mouthed the words inscribed in plain capital letters.