In the Bakery

When I go to work in the early mornings, I like to watch him work. Once I set out my displays in the shining glass counters and turn on the ovens. I always retreat to the kitchen to prepare. From there I can watch him as he works in the long open room that runs off of my kitchen. The shiny silver stainless steel work table is where he will spend most of his time this morning. He sings along with the radio as he works the soft, pliable dough, sending clouds of white flour into the air. It falls like snow, dusting every surface and clinging to the dark hairs of his forearms. I take him a cup of coffee and he wipes his flour covered hands on his white t-shirt. The flour gets every where. It's okay for him with his white uniform. I have to be careful when I come back here that my smart black trousers don't get dusted with the white powder. No matter how careful I am they always do, especially on the days when I sweep out the bakery once he is gone. Once he has lined up his little balls of dough on huge trays and left them to work their magic, rising and filling with air, ready to be baked come nightfall.