By: Stefan Sofiski

The grey hour… I wait for her at the square. Behind me is a bronze statue of a priest, hand raised at his invisible congregation. Trams’ iron wheels screech around me. Hers is late.

I draw from my cigarette and exhale, smoke mixed with steam. My gaze falls on the cobbles, sleek with melting sleet. I shiver.

I hear a bell and turn. A bakery door opens, and a couple walk out. Paper bags in hands, embracing and laughing.

The smell reaches me… Sugary crust, caramel, butter and chocolate. I stare at the bakery. A red awning over a window bathing in golden light.

I flick my cigarette butt and take a step forward. My mouth fills with saliva. I stare at the window. Displays of pastries, tarts and cakes and muffins gleam before me. My stomach gurgles. I sink a cold, trembling hand into my pocket. My fingers reach the coins at the bottom. I press them into my palm and count them in my head. Not enough.

Weighed down by my state, I look up at the metal priest. He stares back from his pedestal. His bronze eyes judge me.

A gust sweeps through the square. My eyes well. Cheeks get numb. I think about the pastries in the window. Golden. Flaky. Sweet… Warm.

The screech of a tram brings me back. I gaze at the stop. The tram departs, and she is there. Her dark, curly hair bounces as she hurries across the road toward me.

She kisses me, lips warm and dry. She presses her cheek against mine. Her warmth sinks into me, settling in my belly. “Missed you”, I nudge my forehead against hers, our noses touching. We wrap our hands tight and go on our way, the golden bakery window forgotten.