(A short story by Irene B.) “T-minus three hours!” Popped up Denise’s text, breaking my once chill morning of scrolling. That was how much time I had before I was supposed to bake my very first loaf of sourdough bread. This is what I get for trying to support a friend… a mate. This is what I get for greedily eating every piece and version of the delicious offering my mate, Krissy, makes. Now here’s me, enrolled in a five-plus-hour class. I blame my stomach. Then Denise adds, all casual and shit. “Who’s excited to make bread?” Immediately my stomach dropped, and a loud “fuck” slipped past my lips, but I hearted her comment. Nikki: “Wait, so we’re starting…
