Chapter Text
Sixteen days left.
A shadow, shaped like a knife, crossed over a cutting board. It raised up high, in preparation.
“Agh. I am not going to finish in time. Goodnight!”
She said that to no one, and her feet didn’t move. Her socks had stains on them, and the bandana that was supposed to keep her hair out of the way kept falling into her eyes.
“Why am I trying so hard?”
Her knife flashed down. She almost chopped into her own freckled thumb. Both of those thumbs fiddled with her apron. She tried to get it off. The hopelessly dirty fabric had been double tied. She couldn’t get through the knots with wet hands. When she failed a third time she decided to dry her hands properly. Her eyes were blinded by red, because her bandana had fallen yet again.
Both of her impatient hands wrenched it up. Her pinky nail cut through the skin above her eyebrow.
“Owch!”
It stung.
She had forgotten to turn on most of the lights, which was contributing to the rest of her problems. It was getting dark. Her messy experiment had taken up most of her waking hours.
I don’t care about winning.
Just throw the knife in the sink.
Then today can be over.
Her yellow eyes darted away from the framed picture above her bread box. Proof of her narcissism. Her pride, more accurately, if she felt like being nice to herself. She was smiling in the picture, flanked by tents and corn fields.
Rachel Light, cheesemaker extraordinaire. It’s not something to be proud of. I won once. Winning again will make me look too obsessed with my job. I need to be a successful mid-sized business owner, not The Weird Cheese Lady. It’s a decent job. It’s not like I love it, but it’s not bad.
Living an honest life, by definition, isn’t.
She looked at it again. Her smile was crooked. Off white. She had quickly booked a teeth whitening appointment the day after the article about her was published. The winner was holding a piece of paper. Her prize didn’t even come with a trophy. Her reward for that day was an extra five thousand dollars, and three handshakes.
Most of that money had gone into her teeth, and she wasn’t the type to celebrate. Her victories didn’t come with a party, or a celebratory date.
That picture was all she had.
Her hands were dry, but she didn’t untie her greying apron. Instead, her fist clenched, and she stuck her pinky finger into a vat of milk.
It's warm enough.
Her knife chopped through more dill, flashingly fast.
The plan for this year’s competition is sharp cheddar that tastes like pickles. I can put a similar recipe on the shelves. The strong one for judging can be used for wine tastings. No one has to know I enjoy winning the local competitions. It is a marketing tactic for most of the companies in the area. The food industry is brutally competitive, and everyone dreams about owning a cute shop and farm like mine.
She worked on her herb and spice mixture while the milk curdled. The side of her knife crushed crystals made of salt. She made her own flaky salt for her tests. Handmade is best for showing off. Her phone clicked, and she set a timer. The fresh herbs had turned into fine pastes. She separated them all, and mixed them into little piles. The way a painter would paint a palette.
My mouth is going to be so sour in the morning, even if I brush my teeth, but a light taste won’t win.
She tested each mixture by pressing the back of a spoon against each pile, before licking it. She made sure that only a small amount touched her tongue each time, because the taste had to be strong enough to make an impact with a single bite. The spice level was off in every mix of ratios but one. She placed a green sticker above it, and she made more.
Bugs were chirping. She could hear them even though the window was closed.
Night had fallen. The curtains were pinned back, so she couldn’t ignore it. The stars were wondrous, and a constant companion on the farm. She loved them dearly, but tonight they were an ill omen. She had spent the whole day alone, on one recipe, again.
I should be a better hostess by now.
My customers think l’m the janitor.
The stars were full of accusations. They asked her why she had not changed. Putting her nose to the grindstone, and being a good citizen, had gotten her some professional success and very little personal success.
I can’t wave a wand a change everything about myself. Plastic surgery isn’t the answer. I’ve seen collapsed noses waltz into the shop with unearned confidence, and they look worse than me. It’s too risky, and I can’t put hours into makeup. I work with food. Animals. It makes my face itch. I hate it when it gets in my mouth.
I just don’t want to.
Why can’t people get over themselves?
She had no friends, and the people who dropped twenty bucks on her bricks of cheese thought she was off-putting.
I wonder how the shop did today?
One of her recent visits had ended terribly.
She wasn’t quite over the incident yet.
What about me is so suspicious, exactly? I ran away with my tail between my legs, but I should have confronted that bitch. You don’t have to dress to the nines to shop for cheese. Why the fuck would they point at me? I’m not a rat. My shirt was wrinkly, but it wasn’t that damn bad.
Her knife chopped through herbs she didn’t need.
“She’s suspicious.”
Her thumb tapped on her tiny wound.
“What is wrong with her?”
It did not require a bandage. A single drop of her blood had successfully sealed it shut.
“Why is she staring at us like that?”
Hot water splashed on her when she washed her knife. Doing the dishes was calming, and it made her shame feel less damning.
Why do I make such a bad first impression? Real life isn’t supposed to work that way. People can’t tell if you’re boring, dumb, evil or low class at a glance.
Right?
She looked at her phone. There were seven unread messages addressed to her.
Do my employees dislike me too?
She sighed. A bowl lined with cheesecloth had already been prepped. She dumped her curdled mixture in.
It has to strain for an hour or two. I can answer my damn phone in that amount of time. Even if everyone’s already asleep they’ll get my answer first thing tomorrow.
I don’t need to be liked.
I need to be prompt.
She tapped a random message, determined to answer it straight away, no matter how annoying it was.
The wine stock.
Yes, let’s focus on that.
The question in question was from her sommelier, Apple. A dapper woman who wore makeup that looked like wax.
A: What’s the wine budget for this month? I’m half empty.
R: 3. Buy local.
Three thousand is more than enough.
Apple didn’t answer, but that was because midnight was an hour away.
She reluctantly clicked on another one.
Her spirited and very blond shopkeeper, Ron Mei, had sent her a more cheerful message.
M: We’re in the green today! Have a nice night!
R: Thank you.
Was that awkward? Should I say I’m excited?
She did not send a second message. Ron Mei was happily married, young, and hard to understand. Her social media profile softened featured her dancing with a fake, computerized halo on her head and wings on her back. She sewed cosplay too, which was a foreign concept for her traditionally raised boss.
I used to think she was my polar opposite, but she’s basically from a different species. She won’t mind if I don’t yap at her. I can’t be too friendly. It would make her uncomfortable, and I don’t want her to leave.
She’s good with people.
The third message she clicked on was blessedly, thankfully spam. She deleted it with a push of a button.
The kitchen was starting to smell like dill, so she got up to clean the cutting board. Predictably, she forgot about the remaining four message pings. The urge to clean took her focus away. She was mopping the floor when she remembered there were more people to appease.
Her phone beeped.
The cheese was done draining. She tossed it in the fridge, and she added oil to her successful spice crust mix. When her hands were sticky and oily she saw her laundry, flapping in the wind outside. She washed off, and rushed to the line in her slippers, which were studded with cartoony stars. Her shirts and pants tumbled around in her arms. She took as many as possible at once, and she threw them inside.
Taking care of myself, and a house, and a business isn’t getting any easier.
It’s been three years.
I should be used to it by now.
I should be more independent.
She rubbed her eyes. Her shirts needed folding.
Time goes by so slowly, until I have a list of things to do.
Her slipper broke a puddle, and she saw her shattered reflection. It made her blush.
I’m a mess.
Her blond hair was extra dull, nearly brown in the dark. It was unforgivably frizzy. Her apron looked like it should have been replaced years ago. Her jeans were loose, and stained too. She wasn’t ashamed of hard work, but looking rough around the edges is another matter entirely. She had employees that worked longer hours that her with better hair and bigger smiles. Her skin had tanned from her years running around outside, and that made her freckles more powerful. They were like dirt, around her fingernails and joints.
I used to be bone pale.
I’m only twenty five but I’m unrecognizable. Sometimes I forget how different I used to look. From cute kid to spoiled girl to…this…
She pulled her sheets off the line. The four messages left were gone from her mind, and they had become five.
Then six.
Someone really wanted to reach her.
Her laundry balled into a pile, at the edge of the stairwell. A spot of oil had dripped down onto her pillowcase.
I need to do the crust.
It’s done, but I didn’t pat it on. The cheese isn’t even out of the mold.
Her mixture of oil, dill, and spices had dried as planed. She pulled out her ugly wad of cheese to flip it over, to reveal a silky and smooth disc. She plucked a food grade paintbrush out of a chipped cup, and she held it like a wand. The lightest layer of olive oil brushed over the top, and the edges. She used slightly damp, gloved hands to pat the crust on.
Sixteen days isn’t enough time for flavor to seep in, under normal circumstances. I used an extra powerful mix, so it’ll stand out fine in the judging.
She wrapped the cheese. It plopped on the plate. “No more excuses. I have my entry ready. I can do more than manual labor. I’m in charge. I am capable of giving off a more mature image.”
Her sock touched a wet patch. Her slippers were by the stairs with her sheets and laundry. It was a battle, but she got her apron off. She left her burgundy bandana on the bar.
“Sure, I stepped in water, but I didn’t slip. Go me.”
She got chills.
Her neck craned around, like there were cameras on her.
“I’m so glad no one was around to hear that.”
Her back arched, and she carried up mostly everything. Socks tumbled out, but all of her sheets made it to her stripped bare bed. She tossed them on. Her hands brushed away her shirts and pants. She had left a trail of socks in her wake.
I’ll do some skin care before I put on my pajamas. Maybe a face mask. I’ll arrive at the shop before it opens, to help bring in the wine.
I’m in the green.
It’s my third year.
I inherited this business, sure, but if I really was useless it would be dead by now.
Her head fell forward, and it landed with a smack on a sunny yellow expanse of fabric. Her fingers clawed at it. She tried to get back up on her knees. The curtains were open. The stars were still shining on her.
She fell asleep.