coffee maker.
I haven’t seen the rent-to-own guy for two days, but at noon he brings in a pizza box.
“I’m asking you out for pizza,” he says. “I hope you like pepperoni.”
We eat in the break room. My boss is happy to allow us that small courtesy. I think she worries about me.
The rent-to-own guy says his name is Dale. He wants to get a degree in accounting. He lives in an efficiency apartment above a record store, three doors from my bakery. He likes playing hockey and watching old comedies. Marx Brothers. Laurel and Hardy. Three Stooges.
I tell him I like sewing and do not skate because I have no balance.
“I bet you’d look amazing if you tried skating,” he says.
“I look amazing enough already,” I say. “And I bet I couldn’t find skates to fit.”
“Just glide in your shoes,” he says without blushing.
I tell him I’ll think about it, wonder if he wants to take me skating to see my slapstick crash on the ice, to make other people stare, but no one aside from my mother has ever bought me pizza, so I decide to interpret it as a mark of his sincerity.
Band-aid wrapper and two small pieces of waxy paper peeled off adhesive backing.
I cut myself while chopping tomatoes for a salad because I’m tired of pizza and want something fresh. I’m not used to paring knives. They’re tiny and slippery in my hands. The cut is small but stings like hell because of the acid from the tomatoes. Still, I am pleased with my meek little salad and independent attempt to eat vegetables.
I tell my mother about the salad when she calls. She is proud of me. My grandmother has not yet regained feeling in her left hand. She probably won’t. There is no one to care for her except my mother, because my grandmother doesn’t trust nurses. Mom will be gone for a while longer. I take a deep breath and try to still my worries.
After telling her good-night, I walk three blocks downtown for the sake of walking. The bakery is closed. I scan the second-storey windows, most of them apartments, wonder where Dale lives and if he’s looking out of his window and down at me.
Bakery bag with two-day-old lemon poppyseed and blueberry muffin crumbs.
I take a short lunch and get off work a half-hour early, go to buy day-old muffins and find the bakery girl is on break, sitting at the tables near the front of the store. I ask if I can sit with her for a moment. She nods. Getting into the chair is particularly awkward. I feel like I stretch across half the room. The bakery girl doesn’t comment on my length, just asks about my grandmother. I watch her fingers as she tears the muffin in pieces.
“I’m a cashier at the stationery store on the next block,” I say.
“I wondered if you worked around here,” she says.
“You did?” I'm surprised she’d have thoughts of me other than the obvious why the hell is she so tall?
The bakery girl says she lives two blocks away in a duplex with her cat. She hates cooking, which is why she works in a bakery. Baked goods fringe benefits.
I tell her I made a salad the other night and it was a big accomplishment. She laughs. We are having an actual conversation. The bruise on my rear hurts like hell because the chair is so hard, but I am past caring. The bakery girl returns to work at five, says it was nice to talk with me. I float home. I do not tell my mother about the bakery girl. Don’t want to get her hopes up.
Empty box of tissues, empty package of lozenges, three empty cans of chicken noodle soup, three empty cans of chicken and rice soup, empty box of soda crackers.
I get an awful cold, an achy head-throbbing cold, spend three days hobbling from the couch to the kitchen. On the third day, when the garbage is overflowing, I pull on a bathrobe (my father’s old terrycloth) and haul the bag to the curb.
Mr. Wilson yells from across the street. “Thought you might be dead or something.”
“Sick,” I sniffle.
Mr. Wilson nods. Half an hour later he bangs on my front door,
I haven’t seen the rent-to-own guy for two days, but at noon he brings in a pizza box.
“I’m asking you out for pizza,” he says. “I hope you like pepperoni.”
We eat in the break room. My boss is happy to allow us that small courtesy. I think she worries about me.
The rent-to-own guy says his name is Dale. He wants to get a degree in accounting. He lives in an efficiency apartment above a record store, three doors from my bakery. He likes playing hockey and watching old comedies. Marx Brothers. Laurel and Hardy. Three Stooges.
I tell him I like sewing and do not skate because I have no balance.
“I bet you’d look amazing if you tried skating,” he says.
“I look amazing enough already,” I say. “And I bet I couldn’t find skates to fit.”
“Just glide in your shoes,” he says without blushing.
I tell him I’ll think about it, wonder if he wants to take me skating to see my slapstick crash on the ice, to make other people stare, but no one aside from my mother has ever bought me pizza, so I decide to interpret it as a mark of his sincerity.
Band-aid wrapper and two small pieces of waxy paper peeled off adhesive backing.
I cut myself while chopping tomatoes for a salad because I’m tired of pizza and want something fresh. I’m not used to paring knives. They’re tiny and slippery in my hands. The cut is small but stings like hell because of the acid from the tomatoes. Still, I am pleased with my meek little salad and independent attempt to eat vegetables.
I tell my mother about the salad when she calls. She is proud of me. My grandmother has not yet regained feeling in her left hand. She probably won’t. There is no one to care for her except my mother, because my grandmother doesn’t trust nurses. Mom will be gone for a while longer. I take a deep breath and try to still my worries.
After telling her good-night, I walk three blocks downtown for the sake of walking. The bakery is closed. I scan the second-storey windows, most of them apartments, wonder where Dale lives and if he’s looking out of his window and down at me.
Bakery bag with two-day-old lemon poppyseed and blueberry muffin crumbs.
I take a short lunch and get off work a half-hour early, go to buy day-old muffins and find the bakery girl is on break, sitting at the tables near the front of the store. I ask if I can sit with her for a moment. She nods. Getting into the chair is particularly awkward. I feel like I stretch across half the room. The bakery girl doesn’t comment on my length, just asks about my grandmother. I watch her fingers as she tears the muffin in pieces.
“I’m a cashier at the stationery store on the next block,” I say.
“I wondered if you worked around here,” she says.
“You did?” I'm surprised she’d have thoughts of me other than the obvious why the hell is she so tall?
The bakery girl says she lives two blocks away in a duplex with her cat. She hates cooking, which is why she works in a bakery. Baked goods fringe benefits.
I tell her I made a salad the other night and it was a big accomplishment. She laughs. We are having an actual conversation. The bruise on my rear hurts like hell because the chair is so hard, but I am past caring. The bakery girl returns to work at five, says it was nice to talk with me. I float home. I do not tell my mother about the bakery girl. Don’t want to get her hopes up.
Empty box of tissues, empty package of lozenges, three empty cans of chicken noodle soup, three empty cans of chicken and rice soup, empty box of soda crackers.
I get an awful cold, an achy head-throbbing cold, spend three days hobbling from the couch to the kitchen. On the third day, when the garbage is overflowing, I pull on a bathrobe (my father’s old terrycloth) and haul the bag to the curb.
Mr. Wilson yells from across the street. “Thought you might be dead or something.”
“Sick,” I sniffle.
Mr. Wilson nods. Half an hour later he bangs on my front door,
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