When the alarm clock rang promptly at 6:30, I stood staring blankly at the wardrobe for ten minutes. A light pink knitted sweater wrapped around my slightly cool shoulders, and the ends of my hair still carried the jasmine fragrance of hair oil. In the mirror, my ears were flushed—this was probably the earliest Sunday morning in my life.
We met at the bakery and sat by the window. The morning fog cast a soft, diffused filter over the streets. He bent his head to spread jam, his movements as meticulous as if performing a precision task, the knife and fork making faint clinking sounds against the porcelain plate. I took a bite of the crispy pastry edge, and a dab of frosting clung to the corner of my lip. Suddenly, he reached out, the warmth of his fingertips hotter than the hot chocolate in my cup.
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