What the Dough Does at Two

The key sticks in the lock the way it always does, and I push the door open with my shoulder. Inside it is cold and smells of last night's flour. I turn on the lights one row at a time, never all at once. The radio is still on the counter where I left it. Two in the morning, and the street outside is completely empty.

I weigh everything. Flour, water, salt, a crumb of yeast that looks like nothing at all. My hands know the numbers, but I still use the scale, because at this hour the eyes lie and the scale does not. The water has to be a little warmer than the room. I test it against my wrist.

The first hour

Mixing is the only loud part of the night. The machine turns, the dough pulls away from the bowl and comes back, and I stand there and watch it like something on a screen. Then I stop the machine and finish with my hands, which is not strictly necessary. Nobody asks me to. I do it anyway.

At two in the morning nothing in this city is awake except the dough and me.

Shaping comes later, when the dough has doubled and the room has warmed from the ovens. I cut, weigh, round, and the pieces go under the cloth in rows. My shoulder aches in the same place every night. I have started to think of it as part of the job, like the apron or the clock on the wall.

The ovens take forty minutes to come up. When the first batch goes in, the whole room changes: the smell, the air, the way the glass fogs. I open the vent a little and stand near the door, where it is coolest, and drink water out of a glass jar, because there are no proper glasses anymore.

At six the first loaves come out and I set them on the racks to cool. Bread sounds different when it is done: a small crackling, like something settling. The woman who opens the shop arrives at half past six and says good morning, and I say good morning, and that is the whole conversation.

Walking home

I leave at seven with flour in my hair and on my sleeves, and I do not care. The street is full of people going the other way: to offices, to school, to the market. They look awake in a way I have forgotten how to be. I buy nothing, I talk to nobody, and it is the best part of the day.

At home I wash my hands twice, close the shutters, and lie down while the building wakes up around me: doors, water in the pipes, someone's television. I sleep through all of it. When I get up, the bread is already sold, and I have to take it on faith that it was good.