Safety Pins

Sunday 5th December

Dear Noah,

I went into Round the Clock Bookshop at about lunchtime, after having completed all of my homework. It was 12:17, so I found the seventeenth book on the twelfth shelf. I pulled it out and read the title: Pastries of 19th Century Britain. It gave me an idea.

I put the book back and hurried out of the store, twinkling the bell as I left. I went home and cracked open some of the cookbooks my mom had bought. When I found a cake recipe that didn't include raisons or spinach, I counted out the last of the money my mom had left me for the week and headed back out the door into the soft winter sunshine.

I navigated my way to the grocery store, grabbed a basket and perused the aisles. Turning down Home Baking, I stopped when I saw a woman kneeling next to a shelf stocked with various bags of sugar, her head in her hands. She had mousy brown hair and, as I saw when she looked up to the guy crouching beside her, a small, pinched face. Her red-rimmed, watery eyes contrasted starkly against her pale skin.

She nodded to something the crouching man said. He placed his hand at the top of her back and helped her up. She wiped her eyes, trying to smile. They both turned my way, and I got a little shock to find that the crouching guy was, in fact, you. I caught your eye, and you whispered something to the woman. She laughed, clearly trying to fight through whatever had made her break down in the middle of the grocery store. You gave her a light hug, pulled apart, said something else to make her smile, and turned, walking straight towards me.

"Hello," you said pleasantly.

"Hi," I said. I bit my lip. I wasn't sure if I was allowed to ask about what had just happened.

"Anna," you tipped your head back to the woman, "was buying some sugar when she suddenly remembered that her son, who died three years ago, used to sneak extra bags of it into the shopping cart when she wasn't looking."

"Oh, no," I said. "Oh, God. Is she okay?"

"She will be," you replied firmly. I looked past your shoulder, but the woman had already left.

"That was nice of you, whatever you did."

You didn't say anything.

"Well, I'll see you around," I said.

"What?"

"I'm going to bake a cake."

You snorted.

"So, um, bye," I said. I stepped around you and kept my eyes on the bags of flour at the end of the aisle.

"Carter," you said, following me. "Wait. Do you need any help?"

I had never had to seriously question whether or not I was dreaming, but there is a first for everything.

"What?"

"I'll make it with you."

"Really?" I asked.

"Sure. What do you need?"

I blinked at you. "Flour."

You reached across me and picked up a bag. I thanked you as you placed it into the basket, but dazedly: you had pressed yourself against me for the briefest of moments as you'd grabbed the flour. You smelt like laundry detergent and cigarette smoke, and, God, I miss it.

We got the rest of the needed ingredients and I paid the bored checkout boy. I hooked my arm around the paper bag and we left.

"So, who are you baking for?" you asked.