Page 12 of Window Seat for Two
The bakery felt transformed in the lantern's glow. Shadows danced across the exposed brick walls, and the familiar space had acquired an intimacy that harsh fluorescent lighting never allowed. The scent of tomorrow's bread hung in the warm air—yeast and flour and something indefinably comforting that made Nate's shoulders relax.
"Everything okay back there?" Nate nodded toward the kitchen area, shrugging out of his wet jacket.
"So far." Ari set the lantern on the counter, its light pooling between them. "The gas ovens are fine, and most of tonight's dough is already proofing. I was just checking the schedules, making sure I wouldn't lose anything critical." He paused, then added with the faintest hint of a smile, "Though I appreciate the concern."
They stood there for a moment, neither quite sure what came next. The storm was picking up outside, rain lashing against the windows with increasing intensity. Thunder rolled overhead, close enough to feel in their chests.
"Sofia taught me to bake during power outages," Ari said suddenly. He gestured toward the back of the kitchen, where Nate could just make out the bulk of an older oven. "There's a wood-fired unit back there from when this place first opened. She'd fire it up whenever the weather got rough, said it was good practice for when the modern world failed you."
"Smart woman."
"The smartest." Ari's voice carried that particular note it always took on when he mentioned his aunt—grief and love and gratitude all tangled together. "She'd make me hand-knead everything on storm nights, no electric mixers allowed. Said my hands needed to learn what the dough was telling them."
Nate found himself drawn toward the counter, close enough that the lantern light caught them both in its warm circle. "What does it tell you?"
"Depends." Ari leaned against the counter, his posture more relaxed than Nate had ever seen it. "Sometimes it's thirsty—needs more water, more time to develop. Sometimes it's tired and needs to rest. Sometimes it's ready for whatever comes next."
"You make it sound alive."
"It is, in a way. Every batch is different, even when you follow the same recipe. Temperature, humidity, the mood you'rein when you mix it—all of that matters." Ari's hands moved as he spoke, and Nate found himself watching the graceful gestures, the way flour still clung to his fingers despite countless washings.
"I had a professor who said something similar about drawing," Nate offered. "That every line is influenced by your breathing, your heartbeat, whether you had coffee that morning. She made us sketch by candlelight once, said we needed to understand how observation changes when you can't rely on seeing everything clearly."
"Did it work?"
"Actually, yeah." The memory surfaced with surprising clarity—hunched over newsprint in his tiny dorm room, candle wax dripping onto his desk as he struggled to capture the play of light and shadow across a still life. "Some of my best work that semester. There was something about not being able to see every detail that forced me to focus on what was actually important."
Thunder crashed overhead, close enough to rattle the windows. Both men glanced up, then back at each other. The storm seemed to be settling in for the long haul, and neither of them suggested that Nate should head home.
Instead, they found themselves settling onto a pair of flour sacks near the counter, close enough that their knees almost touched in the circle of lantern light. The position felt natural somehow, as if they'd been having conversations like this for years instead of barely knowing each other's names a week ago.
"Can I ask you something?" Nate's voice was quieter now, matching the intimacy of their makeshift seating.
"Depends what it is."
"The waves. Our morning waves. How long were you actually noticing them before you started waving back?"
Ari was quiet for so long that Nate began to worry he'd pushed too far. But when the baker finally spoke, his voice held a note of reluctant honesty.
"Longer than I want to admit." He picked at a loose thread on his jeans, not quite meeting Nate's eyes. "At first, I thought you were just this relentlessly cheerful guy who waved at everyone. But then I realized you were always looking at the same spot, same time every morning. Very... dedicated."
"Dedicated to the wrong person, it turned out."
"Yeah, well." Something that might have been a smile ghosted across Ari's face. "Their loss."
The words hung in the air between them, heavier than they should have been. Nate felt his pulse pick up, hyperaware of how close they were sitting, how the lantern light caught the blue of Ari's eyes and made them seem almost luminous.
"I've been looking forward to them," Ari continued, his voice so soft Nate had to lean closer to hear it over the rain. "The waves. More than I want to acknowledge, if I'm being honest."
"What's wrong with acknowledging it?"
"Nothing." Ari's laugh held no humor. "Everything. I'm not exactly known for my optimism about new people."
"Maybe that's okay. Maybe not everyone needs to be optimistic about everything all the time."
"You say that like you speak from experience."
Nate considered this, watching rain streak down the windows beyond their circle of light. "I think I use optimism sometimes to avoid dealing with things that scare me. If I just keep believing everything will work out, I don't have to face the possibility that it won't."
