It was when we lost our apartment that Ronny fell apart, seven years of blistering, blazing anger unleashed
I hate both.
I’m stuck, though. Just like the words in my head, in my throat. Stuck.
“Avivit?” Yaffa pokes her head through the flaps. “Did the timer ring yet?”
I shake my head and continue with the puff pastry. Dot, dot, dot the butter on a third of the dough, fold two thirds over, roll. Dot, dot, dot. If it’s going to be the perfect combination of crisp outside and tiny pockets of air inside, I need to work fast. Roll. Dot, dot, dot.
The shrill ring of the oven timer makes me jump even though I knew it was going to go off any minute.
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