I own a restaurant. I am supervising the cooking. I am making bread. It's easy for me to kneed the dough. I am aware that I couldn't do that "before" or in real life. I take a wooden board with a long handle and pull out beautiful loaves of bread, freshly baked. I put in new loaves of dough. They start to get tangled up. As I'm fixing it, word comes to me that a General has ordered one of my special breads, so I weave the loaves together and cook it. It is beautiful. I cut it open. There are interwoven tunnels in the white, feathery, textured bread. I pour melted butter down the tunnels. I am impressed with my own cleverness. I decide to carry it to the General myself. I am wearing a long silk, white evening gown. I am older (late 40's, early 50's), but looking good. I walk through the messy, busy kitchen. At the next room is the transition room from the kitchen to the fancy restaurant. I take off the apron and trade the wooden board for a silver tray with fancy napkins on it. I walk out into the restaurant. I ask, "What table?" It's either 21 or 12, I'm not sure. I go into a private room, lots of drunken people. As I look for the table, I'm thinking, "I hope I can find the table. Don't be silly, you own the place, you know where everything is." I find the General and start to place the bread in front of him. A woman in his party starts to take it away from me to do it herself. I politely but firmly insist I do it myself (after all, I did the work and I want the credit). She and I have a tug of war. Then I notice the General is very drunk. I point out to him all the tunnels and the butter but he is unimpressed. He's talking about his problems. He puts his arm around my waist and I sit on his lap. He mutters about how the people don't care anymore. He'll lose the election. He tried. He's fair-haired and for the other people, he got a minister that was dark "Rizzo-Egyptian dark," he kept saying. I realize then that he wasn't going to appreciate my fine restaurant, or order a big dinner (which I tried to sell him), or tell his friends about my place. My attitude was one of "c'est la vie," such is life. No hard feelings. Resignation.