Chapter 18: My Girlfriend

On Tuesday at ten to six, my mother stood in the middle of my bakery in her best coat and inspected the pastry case.

"Too much glaze," she said, pointing at the almond croissants.

"Hello, Mama."

"Good morning, habibti. Too much glaze."

She wore her gold bangles and a scarf the color of a ripe apricot, and she had brought her own coffee in a thermos.

My counter helper stood behind the register, wide-eyed, polishing the same spot for the third time.

"Mrs. Haddad," she said. "Would you like a chair?"

"I would like to see the tart."

"It's not out yet."

"I'll wait."

She took the stool by the window and set her thermos on the sill.

The shop filled the way it does on Tuesdays.

First the retired mailman in the green cap, who buys one cheese danish and the paper.

Then the two nurses from the clinic on the corner.

Then the old woman who comes at a quarter past six and orders the same sesame loaf she has ordered for nine years.

I laid out the lemon tarts in a perfect row, twelve of them, each with its curl of zest.

At a quarter past, the bell over the door rang.

Lark came in with her braid wet from the shower and her aquarium fleece smelling faintly of fish.

She walked up to the counter as she had every Tuesday for a year, and she put her hands in her pockets.

Then she looked over the glass and smiled at me, openly, in front of everyone.

"One lemon tart, please," she said.

"For here or to go?"

"For here."

I plated it myself, with a fork, on a white dish.

She sat down at the little table by the window, across from my mother, who had not stopped watching her.

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