Subtext

The first time she tells me, I stand at the baker’s table, wrist deep in flour, water, and cultures of yeast. “Good job.” My startled hazel lifts to meet her calmer brown and my eyebrows rise. “Thanks?” She leaves, and the scuffs of her slippers slide away from the silence left behind. The second time she tells me, I stand at the stove with sticky lard and chalky flour clumped around my fingers. “Good job.” My eyebrows rise, and so do the corners of my mouth: “Thanks!” And she leaves again, her calloused hands clasped at the small of her back. The last time she tells me, I stand after Commencement with my hands draped in silky polyester. “Good job.” But this time, she stays. Her hands reach for me, and the raucous hooting and frenetic cheering mellows, and lessens, distilling into the sound of her heart beating against my ear. This time, I choke out, “I love you, too.”