bakery

Did you walk by my apartment? she asks. I heard you through my window. Were you going to The Church?

No, I say.

I'm on the top floor, above the bakery. I thought I heard you. I thought I heard your voice. She sounds fragile now, after all these years.

It must be nice, I say. Living above a bakery.

It makes life too sweet, everything seems to be covered in sugar now. Everything. My fingers, my chairs, my thoughts. She coughs on the other end.

It was nice talking to you, I say.

Let me know if you ever do go. To The Church. We can steal cakes from the dumpster behind my apartment. So let me know.

I will, I say.