After I Chose You

N i n e

I sprinkled a bit of white flour onto the counter and dusted some on my hands before taking the glob of dough I had just previously mixed together and began to knead it mindlessly with great strength. Tasks in the bakery had become second nature, which was good for several reasons, one being that I was deeper in thought than I could ever recall in my entire life.

I thought you had a family and that they were killed in the revolution? That's what Father said..." Adélie trailed off, her words echoing in my mind as they had everyday since she had breathed them.

I grasped the dough and folded it tightly.

"That's what Father said..."

Fold.

"Father said..."

Using my body weight, I forced the dough into itself.

"Good morning, Sir. We are so sorry to disturb you at this hour, but my wife and I were wondering if you had a place we could sleep for the night," Dmitry had begged Mr. Benoit.

Tighter.
Must make the bread fluffy.

"...but my wife and I were wondering if you had a place we could sleep for the night."

Fold.
Push.
Repeat.

The dough needs to be kneaded.

"...but my wife..."

Push. With my fist, I began to pound the dough, every impact filled with emotion.

"He was a salesman...in a way," I replied casually, bending the truth about Dmitry's former "career."

More flour.

"...a salesman..."

I then turned the dough over and continued kneading, my consciousness somewhere other than in the kitchen.

"You're a liar...and a darn good one at that," Sasha hissed, twirling her blonde hair around her pale bony finger.

"Anya?"

I snapped out of my thoughts and glanced up from the task at hand and to Amélie, whom had called my name, with blurred vision and a wet face. I placed a flour-covered finger delicately to my cheek and frowned slightly in confusion. Sweat usually didn't drip down the front of my cheeks...

Amélie didn't stare but rather, watched me with concern, her eyebrows knitted together in a sort of frightened bewilderment. She had stopped piping filling onto the macaron cookies some time ago it seemed, examining my every move, the bag filled with raspberry cream in hand. Finally, Amélie's natural pink lips parted and though she seemed at a loss for words, she finally spoke.

"Anya, are you...alright?"

I nodded quickly, my tone filled with assurance, "Why, of course! Why wouldn't I be? I'm perfectly fine!"

Amélie seemed unconvinced but struggled for her answer as to why. She went back to filling the macarons, I silently watching her and awaiting her response nervously.

I began to feel self-conscious and I wiped my powdery hands on my apron, my cheeks warming. Was I kneading the french bread dough too much? Too hard? I let my hands gently press the dough, fold it, and shape it before deciding that I had indeed ruined yet another baked good. Number five this week? Check.

I let out a long sigh and placed my head in my hands, ashamed. I was costing this family—this amazing and beyond incredible family everything. A bed and a room to sleep in, a place at their table three times a day, seven days a week, and if that wasn't enough, now I was messing up their pastries? The business was booming and now I was costing them their profits. And for what? Because I was in a daze?