I had a baker for a lover years ago. I would meet him in the early sun glare morning behind the store where all the white coats smoked cigarettes with purpose. We would drink espresso from big coffee mugs and kiss. His apron would push up against me, leaving flour sticky bit track marks on my nice clothing. I ate warm pastries and thick slabs of bread without fear of fat. Out of his open hand. Like a bird. We would drink early, before happy hour. We would smile in dark bars, after his slide into afternoon slumber. We talked of leaving town, escaping the hills. But the mornings kept him hostage. We would go to sleep early and make love in the middle of the night. He taught me nothing of the kitchen, but everything about what matters in the morning, the bright and clean start of each new day. The rise of many things.