The students stared across the flour coated table, mounds of shaggy dough waiting.
He started to knead the dough, his eyes never leaving hers and his hands confidently pushed and rolled.
She stared at him and used her long fingers (she had been an amateur pianist) to shape the dough, the flat of her palm pushing down.
They glared, sweat, shaped. Him confidently pushing, she constantly molding, the gluten agitated into life, began fighting back.
When each push met with resistance, the dough sat triumphant, shiny and rounded.
He winked and gave his a smack.
She laughed, their fight forgotten.