“What? What does that mean?” Brad is lost again.
“Your secret person sends you to places?” Jeannie’s eyelids flutter with the words.
Releasing the drawer knob, I grab my forehead with my index fingers, trying to massage the words out. “My secret person sends me on adventures. Anonymous tasks. And then we write to each other about what we did.” I’m not sure I’m making sense.
“Do you know who this person is?” Brad asks. Jeannie and I both freeze and glare hard at him.
I open my mouth to speak, but close it again when Jeannie starts: “It’s asecretperson, Brad. Not aknownperson. Hence the wordsecret.”
I summon the energy to end this line of questioning, picking up and then smacking the envelope on the counter, “Okay, let’s go. Let’s get out of here. We have bakeries that need crawling.”
They both look at me with stretched faces at the abrupt change of topic.
“What about the envelope?” Jeannie is asking, “Aren’t you going to open it and read what your secret person has written?”
I do my best to dismiss the whole thing calmly, “I…” my tone serious and casual, “will read this message from my secret person after I get back from ‘bakery-ing’ and hanging out with my non-secret people this afternoon. It can wait until then.”
Brad almost doesn’t let me finish my sentence. “But, aren’t you wondering what it says?”
“Can you wait that long?” Jeannie asks, leaning into the counter again.
Leaving the envelope on the counter where it splatted, I begin to make my way back around the island. “That’s what my secret person and I do. We wait. That’s the nature of our secret relationship,” I say so solidly that I believe my own words, even absorbing the calmness in which they are spoken. Their eyes follow me around the island as I make my way into the living room, Brad spinning on his stool.
“Well, I guess that’s that,” Jeannie says.
The enduring silence after her statement tells me clearly that they want to argue this point and possibly know what’s in the envelope more than I do, but I let it dissolve in its own way.
It isn’t until we’ve made our way down the outdoor stairs and hit the sidewalk that any of us speak. It’s Jeannie who breaks the silence: “Martin is meeting us at the Village Bakery. Then we’ll go from there.”
The Village Bakery is a reasonable walk from my apartment and the conversation has thankfully cycled through several unimportant topics before we’ve arrived. The bakery is a disproportionate space, like the open area in the back is huge with its elaborate ovens and aproned attendants, but the purchase counter is tiny with a single register and an ultra-friendly clerk who doesn’t seem to acknowledge that the infinite line of customers is winding through the cordoned off queuing area. There’s also something intriguing about the way that theline seems so long and you grumpily wish for a more efficient system until you arrive at the counter, dissolving into the friendship and focus offered and you’re suddenly thankful for the human interaction, wishing the rest of the world could be as personal. It’s a unique experience.
We’ve moved halfway through the line when I see Martin approaching the glass doors. I must admit that the universe smiles brighter when he arrives. I wonder if the other customers notice, or is it just me? Rather than anger the last half of the line by offering him to cut the line, I tell Brad and Jeannie that I’ll join Martin at the end and they can stay where they are. In some ways the line is almost superfluous because the register is only for placing orders and paying, because then you must wait for them to call your name, which I’ve always wondered about: It feels like they could just grab your loaf and hand it to you as you pay, but they must have a reason. Maybe it just forces you to stay and smell the bread baking.
I meet Martin at the end of the line and he pulls me in for a brief hug. I don’t question it as much as I wonder about the strong aftershave I sense and the warmth that swims through my body as we pull apart.
“Sorry I’m late,” he says.
I laugh. “There is no ‘late’ today. We’ve got nothing to do but walk and buy pastries.” I form my face into an expression that I intend to convey how sarcastically I love Jeannie’s bakery crawl idea.
“I love it,” he says with a smile and piercing glance, “Way better than just driving to a bakery and buying pastries.”
I pause for a moment and soak in the expression on his face. “You’re right,” I admit, as we settle into the wait.
Since this is our first bakery, I’m intent on buying a loaf of sourdough bread, the rustic kind with ‘ancient grains.’ The kind that you can just pull out a slice and savor it straight from theloaf. That, and the smell of the ovens, is the best combination of senses.
Martin is debating about what to order and narrates his thoughts as we wait. I’m entranced by the stirrings of the bakers in the back moving large sheets of formed loaves into and out of the oven with their agile contraptions that work quickly.
Before we know it, we’re waiting at the chairs and tables for them to call our names, and we’ve all made our welcome to Martin officially as a group. Once we’re all in possession of our first round of pastries and breads, we’re heading down the sidewalk, settling into natural pairs, Brad and Jeannie leading the way, splitting a cinnamon roll between them.
“This is so good,” we hear her declaring to the world through a mouthful. “Thanks for crawling with me today!” she yells back at us as we stroll down the street toward the next bakery.
Martin and I settle into a comfortable pace, me tearing off bits of my sourdough slice with my teeth as Martin breaks a giant cookie into mouthful-sized bites. He waves a chunk of cookie in my direction, motions to my bread with his eyes, curls his face into a crooked smile and declares: “Ancient grains, huh?”
I examine the crunchy crust of the slice I’m eating. It’s perfect and real. “It’s good for you. Nothing processed. Just timeless real food.”
“Wanna try some of my ‘modern grains?’” he asks, thrusting the same chunk of cookie in my face with a smirk. The cookies they sell are nearly loaf-size themselves, so the chunk he’s holding is substantial and glistens with sugar and whatever spice gives it a rich, dark color.
I smile back at him, huffing through my nose. “No, I prefer ancient. Thanks.”
