139 days and I’m back in The DoughMother drinking coffee and sharing a cinnamon bun with a woman I met ten minutes ago.
‘I have to write this’ I explained, to which she said ‘I’m going nowhere.’
The contagion still hasn’t passed but those of us who live alone are being allowed out alphabetically. G-K today, so I guess the woman beside me has this much in common with me.
The bakery cafe I frequent somehow managed to stay open, delivering to those of us lucky enough to live nearby. Houlia said yesterday ‘I’m opening tomorrow ten to four.’ I gave her a thumb’s up and left it at that and here I am, on my own, well I was until the woman came in and stood at the counter looking at the cakes before fixing her gaze on me. In truth, there was no one else to look at. I couldn’t hear what she was saying but I did hear Houlia say ‘Robert, how’s your cinnamon bun? This lady is asking.’
‘Come and have a taste.’ Writing is like falling asleep. In my case it just happens and I’ve gone. When I came to she was beside me with a flat white breaking into my bun, before dipping it. ‘Good’ she said. I tore off a piece, put it in my mouth and chewed, not taking my eyes off the woman’s haunted face. By the time I finished I could tell you where every broken, bloodshot, vein was in her grey green eyes, then I noticed the bags. ‘You need a cuddle, first though the bun’ and I shouted across to Houlia ‘Another bun and a second coffee for me please.’
She ate the bun slowly, as if her life depended on it, like a last meal, after which you know the hangman’s rope, a firing squad or electric chair awaits you. In her case it was me. Was I really that bad?
‘I don’t know how’ she finally said. ‘It’s been so long. I lost him long before the contagion and I found it a release — the contagion I mean. No one bothering me, asking how I am? Christ, my husband has gone and I’ve had no physical contact for 400 days, let alone 140(!) and now you offer me a cuddle, not knowing me, no strings attached.’
‘I can see it in your eyes. I don’t need to know more.’
‘No pity then?’
‘Selfish more like’ I confessed to this woman I had known 30 minutes at most.
‘Thank God, someone thinking about themselves before me. How good is that?’
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