All day long, his words simmered in her consciousness, "You never make me croissants. If you loved me, you'd make me croissants." It was ridiculous of him, she knew. In fact, sometimes she'd roll the words over in her mind like prayer beads and smile at his ridiculousness--the childlike neediness. But as the hours passed, she was surprised to discover all at once--his words had come to a boil in her mind and she had to turn off the repetitive accusation before it boiled over. That was why she found herself at the grocery store after work. Flour, butter, milk, sugar, yeast.
No, she'd never made him croissants, it was true. She wondered at the meaning of it--her face reflected in the chrome edges of the refrigerated shelves.
At home, in her kitchen, she decided to put on the kitschy apron (a housewarming present from a friend) and felt a lovely sense of domesticity flood her body.
Two and three quarters cups of flour later and the things baking in the oven--she had to take stock of the mess she'd made. She'd floured the floor, the table, the counter top, herself. She laughed--did a little shimmy dance barefoot swishing a path through the flour on the floor. She wiped off the counter and the table, washed the dishes, shook out the apron, letting the flour settle on the floor with the rest. Pulled the croissants out of the oven when the timer rang. The whole house smelled like love. Smiling, she removed the apron, ironed it crisp with her hands, folded it and placed it high on the shelf. She made a pot of coffee and sat down with her creations.
"You never made me croissants," began to bubble up in her consciousness again, but she took a bite of that buttery loveliness and smiled.
Nope, she thought.
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