A story of flour

Recently, a new baker set up shop in my local village market. I find him terribly attractive, with his shy little face and his pretty cheekbones when he smiles to say thank you. Eating his bread makes me dream: what if the hands that made this dough were touching me with just as much thoughtfulness... This week he offered me a loaf of bread. I dream he put a note inside. I dream that we'll gather in his kitchen lab, in his van. That our bodies meet in the flour. That the strings on the flour sacks touch me. That the bread surrounds us. That we make love in this pretty white dust. Passionately.