Photo by Nico Knaack on Unsplash
by Mikki Aronoff
They clang and crash into each other, right there on the wintery sidewalk outside the neighborhood bakery they worked at together all those years ago. A whoosh of memories collides and pings like pinballs as they rehash the highlights of their yeasty affair and how they’d raced to tumble into each other’s unmade beds, breaths sugary and hot.
They recall how they’d have to imbibe a bit of the hair of the dog before stubbing out their Marlboros and stumbling into the dark—he with his stubbly chin, she with whiskered legs—to sieve and sift and grease, to knead and roll, to beat egg whites into meringue, loft their soft peaks.
Then lament the sleep-deprived disarray that led to their ultimate firing, the pinch and bruise of dismissal.
All those yesterdays rising and hardening.
Like day-old bread.
Mikki Aronoff lives in New Mexico, where she writes tiny stories and advocates for animals. She has stories in Best Microfiction 2024/2025 and Best Small Fictions 2024 and upcoming in Best Small Fictions 2025.
