It was a slow Tuesday with no deadlines and nothing that urgently needed doing, which is the kind of day I used to find slightly threatening. I made bread instead — not because I needed it, not because anyone was coming over, just because I’d been meaning to try the recipe for months and kept finding reasons to put it off.
It took most of the afternoon. The apartment smelled warm and yeasty and specific in a way that felt, somehow, like proof of something. I ate a slice standing over the kitchen counter at six o’clock, with too much butter, and thought: I should do useless things more often. The ones that just make the day feel inhabited.
Not every afternoon needs a purpose. Some of them just need bread.