shorts {a collection of stories}

{topic: 'pastries'}

The air was just on the balmy side of crisp that morning. Paul took his front steps at a normal pace, bagel clasped between his teeth as he fought with the strap of his leather satchel. His suit coat was getting tight at the elbows again. Time to hit the gym.

It didn't help that he was utterly, irredeemably addicted to baked goods, especially those from this little shop he'd found. A Better Crust, four blocks up, exactly halfway between home and the office and the only reason Paul would ever walk to work. The bagel he was eating just then was from that place, part of a dozen that the extremely attractive owner had boxed for him. Paul was gaining all kinds of weight, he knew, but he couldn't stop going there. Because reasons.

Seriously,a beautiful man and amazing food? Why would he ever stop?

Never mind that Paul couldn't actually talk with Evan, the youngest and most pleasant bakery owner he'd ever met. He always wound up with his tongue and gut tied in knots. It'd been too long since he's dated anyone. He didn't recall how to be any kind of smooth around that grin, those eyes. The way Evan used his hands.

Paul would never have thought he'd find someone kneading dough to be so... stimulating.

When he turned onto the sidewalk like he did every morning, there was no one there--but when he stopped on a whim to admire Mrs. Forth's rosebushes suddenly there was a screech, and a shout, and Paul was flailing to the ground beneath a tangle of limbs and bicycle.

For a long moment, he lay beneath it all and breathed.

The sky was a brilliant periwinkle that morning, dotted with fluffy clouds, a bowl containing birdsong and a beautiful day. It was surreal to be on his back on the sidewalk outside, his bagel knocked out of his mouth and just in his line of sight, looking forlorn and abandoned. It might not be too dirty, he thought--and Evan's bagels were worth it.

The person atop him groaned.

"You all right?" Paul asked. His voice sounded about the same as theirs. He suspected that the dull mass digging into his diaphragm was the man's knee.

"Yeah..." Something shifted. "Um. I think I'm stuck."

It all shifted again, the bike's gears sliding alarmingly close to Paul's face. Black grease shone dull and menacing. The man tensed to try again, and Paul just knew he'd have black streaks on his face for days.

"Wait!" he said hastily. "Just--wait. Let's figure this out."

The man laughed a little, self-conscious and subdued, but stayed where he was and let Paul suss out the situation. As a recreational engineer, Paul was used to working with difficult scenarios that involved pipe and other people, but as he studied the mess he was under he gradually became aware of other, little things: the fresh smell of sweat, beneath it shampoo and something like baked goods; the man's breathing, still a little labored. Paul imagined he could even feel an identical runaway heartbeat where the man's limbs were pressed to his.

"Whoa, are y'all okay?" a stranger inquired, somewhere above and behind Paul. It snapped him back to reality. They were outside. People could see.

Before he could answer, however: "Yes! Yes, we're fine, we're getting up," the bicyclist said. His weight lifted from Paul in hesitant pieces. Soon the bike itself was removed, and a hand extended. Paul stood up.

He didn't yet let go of the man's hand.

Russet eyes peered at him from beneath an artsy mop of dirty blond tangles, a neat pencil goatee around a sensuous mouth that was trying to decide between a smile and seriousness. The man was slight, shorter than Paul, and radiated good nature.

He was also instantly recognizable.

"If I give you a free pastry," said Evan, owner of A Better Crust, "will you let this one slide?"

"Only if it's one of those blackberry things," Paul said. His heart was trying to beat out of his chest. "I love those."

I might love you, too.

Evan's expression softened. "It's a deal."

His thumb moved in a gentle swipe over the back of Paul's hand.