At the patisserie on E Howell & E Olive Way, I’m rushing in to wolf down something classy before I head into a DND game 30 minutes late.

As I struggle to take off my headphones and put on my mask, you double check whether I’m okay with you going in ahead of me, knowing that it’s 12:15 pm, and that the most coveted pastries are scarce.

We wind up next to each other in line. You ask me which one I hope to get. You’re bereft that they’re out of the ham one. I sympathize as I try to choose. I tell you maybe this is a sign you should try something sweet. You smile as you tell me you’re not a sweet guy.

 I point to the quiche, and you say, no, that’s too rich. I choose the lemon-pistachio one for myself. I hear you choose the same behind me. I tell you that you’re a man of taste, and I tell you that I hope to see you around. Then I leave, like an idiot, without your name or your number or anything.

Suddenly, I realize that you might be single, like me, since you only got one lemon-pistachio thingy. I actually double back to try to find you, and I see you in the distance, your white T-shirt zig-zagging through the crosswalks over by City Market as you head downtown on Olive Way.

I cannot catch up. I like you un-sweet and un-rich. See you at the patisserie around noon some Saturday, I madly hope.

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