Blend M

Bring-Bring. Click-a-chunka. Bring-Bring.
It was to a mechanical chorus Brett snapped his eyes open, blinked twice. That had been a nice dream, he thought, even if he couldn't remember it. But damned if that alarm weren't loud. Loud was good though. Loud made him awake.
Loud got the day going, didn't it, Bretty boy?
A glance to his watch showed him the time. 3 in the morning, as always. Perfect. The chill of the morning air nearly coaxed him to stay beneath the covers just a while longer. Oh, but he got up. He was better than that.
The world about him was dark, moonlight foiled by the cover of clouds. Still, he weaved through the bedroom with familiarity, not bothering to turn on any lights. Didn't want to disturb the rest of his companions, were it necessary. The mound beneath the left side of his bed. The lanky shape that curled over the top of the lounge, leaving its bed untouched, as always. No, let them rest. Was that rain which pattered on his windows? He shivered in the cold, bare to the world save his boxers, as he rifled through his clothing drawers.
Breakfast was a spartan affair, as it often was, muesli and black coffee by phone-light. Energy for the upcoming day, thats all. No berries on top, a testament to the empty package sitting limply in his fridge. Have to get some tonight, so he would.

The bakery was within walking distance. Reason he'd bought the house, wasn't it? He jogged, like he always did, the thump of rubber soles connecting with dirt road a singular, lonely sound in this long, empty world which the darkness beheld. It had been rain, though not much of it. He passed rows of squat houses, fireplaces long since burned down, darkened windows the sign of their resting occupants. A zigzagoon clambered atop a fence with stubby limbs, beady eyes watching his progress. It showed no apprehension as he raced past, though its silent face showed nothing. He'd done this enough for it to know what happened.

He quickened his pace, enjoying the resultant twitch in his chest. The soreness in his legs. The familiar sight of the bakery grew before him in the horizon, pastel signboard like a beacon in the darkness. Kalosian type of architecture, the result of a wave of immigration sixty years back. The village had been built on this, a lumber town by the railway, drawing Kalosians with the prospect of ready work and stability. Many of the houses around here, with their arched windows, sloped roofs, and elaborately engraved doors and staircases, had been made from the very same wood that their occupants had cut. He rattled with his keys, slipping into the back entrance with a click. Not a lot of people bothered doing so out here in the sticks. Small town trust, and what not. For him, it was habit though, born from a childhood in an inner city housing block, one of the ones not known for its hospitality, and long stretches out on the road between towns.
He flicked a light switch without looking at it, as he tucked his fleece jumper beneath an apron. Under the glare of halogen lights, the back end of the bakery stood before him, stone floor shining, brick walls inviting. His realm of mastery. Massive stone bowls for mixing dough stood beside sacks of flour larger than his torso, which sat piled upon each other like massive puppies. Beside a mighty refrigerator, a pantry stood filled with ingredients. On each, where the label would be, a post-it note had been stuck, each of a different colour. The oven loomed mighty above all, its brick surface twice as old as he was, and eight times as large. The contraption might have seemed just as appropriate in a castle of old as his bakery, and yet there was a reason he hadn't replaced it for something newer, with dials and timers and displays, that didn't require half a forests worth of firewood to get going.

He didn't waste a second pondering, as he readied for the days production. A cylinder of yeast (Red post it) was swiftly upended into hot water, as he muscled a bag of flour over the mixing bowl. Today was monday, that meant custard slice, which meant vanilla essence (Aquamarine post-it), icing sugar (Purple post-it), and corn flour (yellow-green post-it). Oh, and Citrus berry tarts (Orange post-it, off-white post-it, cyan post-it, grey post-it, with some extra purple post-it left over for the glaze). His to do list lay neglected on a corkboard, its writing scratchy. There were a couple more things to be done, to be made, what, some sausage rolls, baklava and lamingtons, a batch of pane di case, oh, but they could wait until later, for the lunch time rush.
He paused, nearly cursed himself. No, Bretty-Boy, they could not.
He was a whirling dervish in apron and chefs hat, careening from side to side in the kitchen in a flurry of movement bordering on manic. To the unattentive watcher, it would appear he was merely catapulting about with no plan nor reason in a glutenous kalleidiscope. Oh, but there was an order, of sorts. Faggots of wood vanished into the stove, as it grew ever hotter behind him, and foaming yeast collided with flour. Doughs were pounded, and fillings stirred akimbo. A tray of ornately braided loaves slid into the stove, as butter was folded into eggs in a delicate pastry base. His understanding of what needed to be done where was nearly unnatural, as his sneakers carried him from counter-top to counter-top. At the signal of some countdown known only to him, he turned back to the oven and its savory-smelling contents, armoured in baking gloves. He pulled the tray from its depths, eyes squinted in anticipation. And cursed.

He was gone. She knew that the moment she woke. Where normally his weight would press down the left half of the bed as they doze, there was nothing but a hollow in the blankets, and the depression in his pillow where his head sunk. The sheets that had covered him had been gently tucked back in place around her.
Sarah sighed. She'd begun to forget what it felt like to wake up next to him.
With a heft of her body, the bovine slid out of bed. Oh, she'd asked, him time and again, that he might wake her up for the morning shift, so that he could have help preparing for the day. Time and again, he'd said sure thing, of course, you bet, only for him to slink away to the bakery while she snored. And leave that emptiness beside her in the bed.
She ambled out to the living room, yawning peacefully. The wall clock read thirty past six. This was confirmed by the lazy sunbeams which shone in from the window. Snores emanated from beneath a rat's nest of blankets that encased the lounge. Of course he'd still be sleeping. Sarah saw no point in waking the occupant of the occasionally twitching mass. It had nothing worthwhile to say. She trotted past the fridge, considered a glass of something cold before she left. No point. There'd be something nice at the bakery. Always was.
Brett. Apparently, he didn't want to disturb her, thought waking her up so early might be unhealthy, that her body should wake up when it naturally decided to. Well, He sure didn't see any problem in doing it himself, she thought dourly. She unlatched the door, custom-made for ease of use by less dextrous beings, such as herself. Many things were. It was a frigid morning outside, as her bare skin loudly let her know. Most were, out here in the boonies. A pillow of fog loitered uncertainly at the cusp of the forest on the other edge of the road, tiny wisps peeling off to fold and vanish into the morning air. She started off then, already longing for the warmth of the bakeries oven despite having just left home. She hoped he'd made some more of those pikelets with honey. They were nice.

Sarah ambled through the back entrance. He'd lost the sneakers at the entrance, muddy as they were; he always kept a pair of soft . His baking shoes, he called them.
She found Brett as she often did; in a flurry of motion. "Oh Sarah!" He cried out, practically jogging out from the storefront to retrieve some morsel for a customer. She opened her mouth, about to form a greeting, but was interrupted as he blurted out an instruction. "Be a dear and man the counter for a tick, would you?" He didn't wait for a response, slid past her to resume his baking duties. She suppressed a sigh, then paced up to the counter, on the other side of which, a tall man with a moustache bounced on his heels impatiently.
She didn't bother with pleasantries, seeing as how we wouldn't understand her, but merely shot what she figured for a customer service smile his way. Brett slid in beside her, something warm exchanging hands, as the moustache man stepped away with a hungry look about him. The next customer shuffled in behind him. The queue was large today.
Mornings were the difficult part, when customer traffic was at its highest, and hence, the workload. Coming from the city, Brett had initially been somewhat baffled. To him, baked goods were something that came in plastic wrap from the supermarket cut into symmetrical slices, same as just about everything else. It was a scratch different out here. You got your meat from the butcher, vegetables from the greengrocer, and everything else from the farmers market every weekend, or from what you could grow in your backyard. Hell, they still had a milkman.
The bakery was no different. A veritable procession of townsfolk waited for a fresh loaf of bread for the morning toast, a hot pie or sausage roll to chew down before their shift began, or something sweet to have during morning break.
That was just how it was. They'd thought it quaint, to begin with. A township with Then the realisation had come that, in order to properly supply an entire town with baked goods, they would have to start preparation in advance. Very much in advance.

Sarah slumped down, relieved. Nine o'clock. Late enough that the flow had staunched, their customers having found jobs to work at and homes to return to, leaving her with an empty storefront. She closed her eyes, letting out a sigh. It was faint moo, really, same as most of her vocalisations. She felt a mug of tea pushed into her hands. Behind it lay her trainer, normally stern face giving way to a warm smile as he looked down at her.
"Hi. Sorry about piling that on you, you know how it is.". He patted her shoulder, other hand nursing a cup of his own. He drunk coffee, a fact which continued to puzzle her due to the bitter, malodorous nature of the substance. "You have a good sleep?" . They conversed in Pokemon tongue, her master being among those of man who took to the language group. He had an accent, the result of lessons from a Galarian Hatterene, but was otherwise the equal of any Pokemon, something he took great pride in.
"You could have woken me up to help you, you know that?"
She knew his answer before he said it "I didn't want to wake you up. I'll do it next time, ok?" Typical. It was compassion that guided him, she knew that, but it didn't make it any less frustrating.
She didn't comment, merely asked how the morning shift was.
"Fine. Managed to get a few good batches out the door, get things in order. Same as most days, y'know?"
Their conversation carried into the back room. It was in a state of disrepair, powders, flours and fondants decorating the counters, a mountain of dough-spattered bowls and mixing spoons filling the sink. A post-it note had somehow adhered itself to the roof. Mauve. Or was it Lavender. Only he'd know. Her eyes were drawn to a batch of tapering, braided baguettes embedded with crispy sunflower seeds. Even from a distance she could see they were lovingly shaped by a gentle hand, and so fluffy she felt she could use one as a pillow.
They were thrown in a heap at the top of the waste bin.

"Why'd you chuck these?" She inquired, scooping up one of the crusty loaves.
Brett looked embarassed."Bad bread. Scuffed up the kneading, I think, or left them in too long. Way too stiff. Made a second batch, they were a little better"
Ignoring his protests, she took a hearty bite from the loaf.
Even cold and absent of butter or other condiments, and following a stint in a rubbish bin, she couldn't help but marvel at its taste. It's rich and crunchy crust gave way to an interior was soft and fluffy, like eating a wheaten marshmallow. The interspersed seeds and grains diversified the flavor pallet and added texture to it, further improving the dish.
"Hell they are. These are great."
He'd done it again. She supressed a sigh.
Below the bread sat a sad-looking lump of tarts, sloughing into each other. Perhaps there would be