Flour is scattered thinly over the steel tray, and four round pieces of dough sit apart from one another. Orange light spreads out from the oven behind them and warms the sides of the dough. Fingertip marks are left on the surface, and the edges keep their white color.
When you step into a kitchen like this, the nose reacts before the eyes. When the smell of wheat and the heat mix and rise toward the face, the breath you draw in deepens on its own, and the shoulders drop about half a hand's width. The hands rest at your sides without holding anything, and the soles of the feet meet the floor broadly.
There are stretches of time when waiting does not feel stifling. That is the moment when having nothing to do right now does not turn into restlessness, and instead loosens the body.
It does not have to be a kitchen. Breathe in slowly through the nose where you are, and find just three smells mixed into the air. Coffee, paper, the air outside the window. While you count, the breath lengthens on its own, so there is no need to control it.
Counting smells is possible at a crosswalk as well. While you wait for the green light and count what comes in at the tip of your nose, you can glance sideways at where your shoulders are. Checking whether they have risen close to your ears, or whether one side leans toward the bag strap, is enough. Whether it changes or stays the same, there is no need to write it down, and you can leave it as something you saw.
The dough is still rising quietly. Even while no one is watching.
