Come over and make biscuits with me. Knead them, let them rise. Brush my arm with your floury fingers. (I don't want to go out, but I don't want to be alone.) Let the yeast grow. Listen to the music. We can talk about new bands, and our favorite funny movies, and places we still want to go. Let the timer surprise us into laughter. Dough in the oven, and everything smells like heaven. I sit on the counter with my feet swinging. We wait. Biscuits on the counter, steaming, I get out the butter, the honey, the jam. You hold the refrigerator door open for me. Knives. Napkins. Crack them open, watch them steam. Watch the butter slip liquid and golden into the tiny biscuit-hollows.
Friends and biscuits. That's all I want today.
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