Joy For Beginners by Erica Bauermeister Page A

counter, as unyielding as chewing gum. Clay was nothing like this.
    “Something is wrong. Shouldn’t we add some flour or something?”
    “It’s fine.” Henry was unconcerned. “Just pick it up so it stretches.”
    The dough hung down from her fingers, elongating, grotesque, like a cat dangled by its forelegs.
    Bits of dough were working their way up toward her sleeves. In frustration, Daria yanked her right hand out of the mass and used her hip to push her sleeve up. Henry caught sight of the tattoos spiraling their way up her forearm.
    Daria looked at him, eyebrows raised. She was used to this moment, although reactions took different forms. The prurient curiosity, the instant come-ons, the self-congratulatory open-mindedness.
    Henry smiled, pushed up the short sleeve of his T-shirt to reveal his shoulder.
    “Solomon Islands,” he said, nodding toward an intricate black design. He pointed to his other shoulder. “Texas.”
    “Well, okay then,” she said, and smiled. She looked down at her hands. “You know, this is a mess.”
    “It’s fine. Give it a slap on the counter.”
    “What?”
    “Slap it on the counter.”
    Daria let the dough droop onto the marble surface.
    “That was ridiculous. Give it a good thwack.”
    Daria looked up at Henry. “Really?”
    “It’s okay; you won’t hurt it.”
    Daria slid her hands back under the sides of the dough again and raised it off the marble, letting it stretch. Then she raised it higher, slapping the end against the counter like a wet towel. The sound was loud and solid.
    “Good,” said Henry. “Now fold it over and just keep doing that.”
    Daria hit the dough against the counter with a firm smack. Fold. Smack. Fold. She could feel the dough changing under her hands, becoming more elastic. Still it seemed a far cry from the dough she had expected; she couldn’t be doing it right.
    “Are you sure we shouldn’t add flour or something?”
    “It’s fine; it’s almost there.” Henry’s voice was unconcerned. “See how you are getting the air in, the way the strands of gluten are forming? It’s lovely.”
    Daria pulled her hands out of the dough and stood to the side. “Your turn.”
    Daria watched as Henry nodded and stepped forward, cupping his hands gently around the irregular shape. He stretched it up and folded it over, his movements casual, affectionate—back and forth, back and forth—an interplay of dough, hands, air. With each repetition, the dough began to cling more to itself, less to the counter. And then, as she watched, the rough texture smoothed out, the dough became smooth and white, extending and springing back in his grasp.
    “That’s incredible,” she said.
    “A French guy taught me. I had never realized before how alive this stuff is. It’s like a puppy.” He grinned.
    “Now,” he said, “we form the loaves.”
    Henry cut the dough in half. As she watched, he folded in the edges of one of the portions, one over the other, rounding the dough using the open palms of his hands. Daria watched, mesmerized by the way the dough seemed to relax as his hands moved across it, take the shape he was offering.
    “Your turn,” he said.
    Daria washed the old dough from her hands and toweled them dry. Stepping over to the counter, she brought her clean palms to the surface of the dough. It was soft, expectant; she could almost sense the air moving through it. She closed her eyes and remembered what she had seen Henry do, relaxing her hands into loose parentheses, sliding them gently over the dough, shaping it, feeling it warm as skin beneath her hands.
    She opened her eyes and gazed at the round loaf in front of her, then at Henry.
    “Look at that,” she said, and she reached up for the kiss that was waiting in his smile.
     
    DARIA LAY NEXT to Henry in his bed, inhaling the smell of baking bread that filled the house, the man beside her. Warm sugar, fields in the summer, the slight sharpness of wine. She wondered if anyone had ever