Page 34 of Spiced!

I picked up my phone and typed a new message to Puck’s Dad.

Me: I’ve been thinking about what you said about the bread vs. shoe theft debate, and I think you’re wrong about the logical endpoint argument because—

I backspaced until the message was blank.

That was too long, too much like I’d been obsessing over it, which I had, but that was different from leading with it on a Monday morning.

My thumbs moved again.

Me: Mofongo destroyed one of my throw pillows last night. Sending you the bill.

Then I deleted that, too.

It was fine as far as texts go, but it felt like I was using the dog as a buffer, which Benji had specifically told me not to do. Benji was insufferable but rarely wrong. He was, after all, happily snuggled with his own veterinary surgeon, proof modern miracles exist.

I typed a new message.

Me: The pan sobao turned out well this morning.

I stared at that for a full ten seconds, then deleted it because I was a grown-ass man, and I was not going to text a veterinarian about bread at six-fifteen on a Monday morning.

Who does that?

I tossed the phone on the counter. The clatter was loud enough to grab Doña Carmen’s attention. She looked up, brows bunching, but said nothing.

“I’m not doing anything,” I said far more defensively than her non-reply warranted.

“I know.”

“I’m just thinking.”

“Mm-hm.”

“The dough is ready to go in.”

“I can see that,” she said.

I put the trays in the oven, set the timer, washed my hands, and picked up my phone one more time.

Me: Hey.

I stared at it.

It was the most honest thing I’d tried to send all morning, which was either a good sign or a sign that I needed more sleep. Possibly both.

I hit SEND before I could delete it, then put the phone face down on the shelf and went back to the empanada dough. I told myself I was not going to check it for at least twenty minutes.

I checked it in four.

Nothing yet.

Which was fine.

It was perfectly fine.

Normal even.

People took time returning messages and texts and letters and carrier pigeon notes. Those took even longer, being all medieval and shit. Did they still use pigeons for messages? I wondered. It felt like they did because at the six-minute mark, there was still no reply, so a pigeon must’ve been involved. It was just science.