âIs this what you always dreamt of doing? Baking?â
The boy had been sitting in front of the shop for over an hour, his posture even sadder-looking than the old falling-apart bench in the sidewalk. His hoodie and sweatpants looked new, clean, and there was no starvation in his face, at least not for food. But sheâd lost count of the days she spent with that special kind of hunger behind her throat, so she carefully opened the grass-green door and asked if the boy would like to come inside.
Cherry tarts wouldnât fill that particular emptiness, but being sad on an empty stomach would for sure be worse.
âWhy do you ask? Having work problems?â
âSomething like that.â
His eyes were huge and his his eyelashes even bigger, fanning his eyelids as he opened them. They were brown, brown like the walnut cream she made, the one with not-that-much chocolate that sells a lot in winter. He still hadnât eaten the cherry tart she put in front of him. He just kept watching her work, cleaning her station, huge brown eyes fixed on broken-short nails.
âMy mother was a baker.â
He smiled, a sad, sad thing.
âThat doesnât answer the question.â
âDoes it matter? It pays the bills. No one really does the job they want.â
âBut if you could do anything, what would you do?â
âDoes ânot work at allâ count?â
âSure, if you want to. But if you didnât work at all, what would you do?â
She decided the boy was weird. But she was weird, too, so she stopped where she was scrubbing a stain in the counter, gaze lost in the people passing through the front windows.
âI would bake, I think.â
âBut I thought you didnât like baking?â
The boy turned his head to his right. He was looking at her as if he thought she was weird.
âI said my mother was a baker. And that no one does the job they want. But I think itâs because you start doing whatever it is you like doing, and you turn it into a job, and then you donât like it so much anymore.â
âWhy would you think that?â
âI liked baking with my mother.â She blinked, and the old shop was now an old kitchen, flour everywhere, the smell of burning sugar, momâs raspy laugh. She blinked again. âNow I wake up at three in the morning to bake for people who donât know what âthank youâ means. Still beats most other jobs, though.â
âWhy? Because you like it?
âYou ask a lot of questions.â
âAnd you keep answering them.â
âBecause, well, it makes people happy, I think. Everyone likes a good pastry. I may not be saving the world, but no one really is, right? Weâre all gonna be dead âcause of global warming or, like, mutated fish, before we turn 50.â
âThatâs awfully pessimistic. Weâre not going to die because of fish. It will surely be the microplastics.â
âThatâll be on the fish.â
âIn all fairness⊠true.â
âYou sound like an old men with too many degrees.â
âAnyway. If weâre all going die anyway, why keep baking? Shouldnât we just, eat the fish already?â
âNow whoâs pessimistic? And I canât believe youâre asking me the meaning of life. Iâm a baker, not a philosopher.â
âSo you canât have an opinion? Tell me anyway.â
The boy was definitely weird. His eyes were shining now, fixed on her face, huge and brown and interested. She went back to scrubbing.
âI think⊠I think life is as good as a collection of days. And we donât need to ignore the bad days, but hang on and make sure there are more good days after them. More good days than bad ones, you know? And just⊠making peopleâs days a little better makes my day better. So Iâll keep baking. At least until the fish comes.â
The brown pools disappeared as the boy blinked. When they appeared again, fat drops of water were clinging to his lashes.
âThatâs a really pretty way of thinking.â
âAnd you? If you could do anything, what would you do?â
âNot what my dad does, thatâs for sure.â
âHe makes decisions. All day.â
âDoesnât sound so bad. We all do that. But answer the question, what would you like to do?â
He picked up a napkin, folding it with precision.
âI guess I would like to make peopleâs days a little better, too.â
He finally picked up the cherry tart, pinkie finger up. He bit, and a brave tear left his eyes, fighting the way down his face.
âGod, this is a really fucking good pastry.â There were more tears after the first, flowing freely now. âWill you marry me?â
She almost didnât even laugh. âSure. But I wonât bake for the wedding.â
âIâm serious. You should be a queen. Youâd be great at it.â
âSo you keep saying. Youâll be a queen one day.â
âWell, suit yourself. But just so you know⊠I wonât bake at the coronation, either.â
They came before opening hours the next day.
Three royal guards, dressed in rich crimson, gold lining their uniforms. They carried a fancy looking letter, which they handed her, but the curved letters were hell to read. She waited until one of them recited the message from their iPad.
The prince was looking for a wife. He had found one. She was to get on their car and proceed to the palace.
She politely declined, asked them about their mothers and lovers, offered some jelly tart and sent them on their way.
Before lunch, there were five others guards in front of her shop.
He only came by sundown, when she was closing, after a full day of baking and selling and sending fancy soldiers on their way. The boy was alone, and dressed pretty much the same: hoodie and sweatpants, and less sad looking eyes.
âYou sent my guards home.â
âI gave them pastries.â
âAnd then sent them home.â
âWell, the pastries go better with tea. I donât serve it here.â
He kept standing there, in the middle of the empty shop. He didnât look like a prince. She stepped behind the counter and picked up a plate.
âYou want a cherry or strawberry tart?â
âFigured. I had to google you, yâknow.â
The brown eyes seemed to gleam, and he moved towards the high chairs.
âWell, when random people dressed in gold show up and say someone wants to marry you, you start to think you might have met that person before. When they say that person is the prince, and you realize you donât know what he looks like, you google him.â
âAnd what did you find?â
âNothing as exiting as a conversation about mutated fish, unfortunately.â
âPity. He sounds like a bore.â
âI think heâs okay.â
There was silence for a while. Outside, the sun was way down, the city lights getting brighter by the second.
âWhy do you want to marry me?â
He turned his head to the right, blinking like he still thought her weird.
âI told you yesterday. I think you should be queen.â
âI like baking. I donât want to rule over anything.â
âYou like baking, yes. And you can keep doing that here in your shop. But I need to marry, and I would like for my spouse to care about the right things.â
âAnd what would that be?â
âMaking peopleâs days a little bit better. Even if it is one pastry at a time.â
The air on the shop seemed to stand still. It was mostly the same since her motherâs passing; stone floors, big windows, grass-green door. Falling-apart bench in the sidewalk.
Well. It seemed like a good deal.
âWhat would I need to do?â
âA lot of decisions.â
âWould I still get to bake?â
âYes. If you want to.â
âOkay then. Iâll marry you. Do you want another tart?â
âDepends. Are the mutated fish in stock?â
âDisappointing. But weâll make do until then.â