Page 6 of Window Seat for Two
As she shuffled toward the door with her paper bag clutched carefully in arthritic hands, Ari found himself glancing toward the window again. His stranger was still there, sketchbook open, but his attention seemed more focused now, as if something had shifted during their brief eye contact. The pencil moved with increased purpose, capturing whatever he saw when he looked toward the bakery.
Toward him.
Throughout the morning, Ari discovered himself engineering excuses to work near the front windows. Wiping down already spotless surfaces, rearranging displays that needed no adjustment, checking his window signs with obsessive attention to detail. Each time, he caught glimpses of continued activity across the street—the steady movement of pencil across paper, occasional pauses for coffee or thoughtful consideration, always that sense of focused attention directed toward the bakery.
This attention should have been uncomfortable, but instead it felt like being offered something precious he'd forgotten how to want. During the darkest weeks after Sofia's death and Marcus's abandonment, Ari had convinced himself he preferred invisibility. Being overlooked meant being safe from judgment, from the exhausting work of pretending to be stable when everything felt like it was crumbling beneath his feet.
But this attention didn't feel demanding or intrusive. It felt like recognition—the way Sofia used to see him, before grief and heartbreak had dulled his edges and made him forget who he'd been before loss defined him. His stranger across the street was drawing something worth capturing, finding beauty in a person Ari had trouble recognizing in his own mirror.
A couple from the early lunch crowd purchased sandwiches and lingered at the small table near the window, their conversation a comfortable murmur that reminded him why Sofia had loved this business. The bakery at its best was a gathering place, a spot where neighbors could connect over shared appreciation for real food made with care. He'd lost sight of that vision in recent months, too focused on survival to remember the joy Sofia had found in feeding people.
Maybe it was time to remember.
Through the window, he watched his stranger close the sketchbook with what appeared to be satisfaction, gathering his things with deliberate care. The pang of disappointment that shot through Ari's chest was entirely disproportionate to the situation, but he couldn't deny its intensity. For the first time in months, he'd been looking forward to something, anticipating the next moment of connection with eager curiosity instead of dreading whatever the day might bring.
As his stranger stood and stretched, preparing to head inside for whatever claimed his attention during the rest of the day, their eyes met one final time through the glass. This time, Ari didn't hesitate to wave goodbye, and the answering smile he received felt like a promise of continuation rather than an ending.
When the window across the street finally emptied, Ari remained standing at his own glass barrier, one flour-dusted hand pressed against the cool surface. Tomorrow morning felt impossibly far away, but for the first time since Sofia's death,he found himself genuinely looking forward to it. Whatever was beginning between him and the nameless artist across the street, it felt like the first crack in the walls he'd built around his heart.
And maybe, just maybe, that was exactly what Sofia would have wanted for him.
FIVE
AWKWARD INTRODUCTIONS
The sketchbook felt heavier than usual in Nate's hands as he stood at his window, watching Ari move through the morning routine that had become as familiar as his own. Three days had passed since their first exchange of waves, three days of increasingly elaborate gestures that left Nate's heart hammering against his ribs each morning. Today, the baker had even held up what looked like a cinnamon roll, pointing at it and then at Nate's window with a questioning tilt of his head.
The gesture had been so unexpectedly charming that Nate had nearly pressed his face against the glass like an overexcited puppy. Instead, he'd given an enthusiastic thumbs up and watched Ari's face break into what might have been an actual smile before disappearing back into the depths of his bakery.
Now, clutching the pristine sketchbook he'd been saving for a special project, Nate tried to summon the courage that had carried him through art school critiques and client presentations. How hard could it be to cross a narrow street and introduce himself to someone who'd been waving at him for three consecutive days?
His reflection in the window showed ink-stained fingers and hair that defied any attempt at styling, but his vintageArcade Fire t-shirt was clean and his jeans were his best pair. Good enough for a casual introduction to the man who'd been occupying his thoughts with increasing frequency.
The morning air carried the scent of fresh bread as Nate crossed Maple Walk, dodging an early jogger and a woman walking her ancient corgi. The bakery's windows glowed warm and golden, and through them he could see Ari arranging pastries in the display case with careful precision.
The heavy glass door required more effort than expected, and Nate stumbled slightly as it finally gave way, sending a small bell chiming overhead. The interior hit him like a warm embrace—yeast and butter and cinnamon swirling together with something comforting that reminded him of his grandmother's kitchen. Exposed brick walls held vintage tin signs and framed black-and-white photographs, while mismatched wooden tables and chairs created cozy conversation nooks. Edison bulbs cast everything in soft amber light, and a chalkboard menu promised daily specials in cheerful handwriting.
Behind the counter, Ari looked up from his pastry arrangement, flour dusting the front of his dark apron like snow. Up close, he was even more striking than Nate had imagined—silver threading through light brown hair that looked soft despite its practical cut, laugh lines marking the corners of sharp blue eyes, and careful hands that moved with the confidence of long practice. When Ari set down his pastry tongs and really looked at Nate, something warm unfurled in the space between Nate's lungs.
"Hi." The word came out slightly breathless, and Nate cleared his throat, trying again. "I'm Nate—I live across the street." He gestured toward his window, visible through the bakery's front glass. "I think we've been having some interesting conversations without actually talking."
Recognition dawned across Ari's features, followed by something that might have been relief. He wiped his hands on his apron before extending one in greeting, and when their palms met, Nate noted the calluses and small burns that spoke of serious kitchen work.
"Ari," the baker said, his voice carrying a slight accent that Nate couldn't quite place. "I was beginning to wonder if you were ever going to come over here, or if we'd just wave at each other until one of us moved away."
The dry humor in his tone made Nate laugh, some of the nervous energy in his chest settling into something warmer. "I was working up the courage. Seemed important to make a good first impression on someone who's been brightening my mornings."
Ari's cheeks colored slightly at the compliment, though he didn't look away. Instead, he gestured at the display case between them. "Well, since you're here, I should probably feed you. Can't have my morning entertainment wasting away across the street."
"What would you recommend?" Nate moved closer to examine the pastries, noting how each item was perfectly placed, golden crusts gleaming under the warm lights.
"Depends on your taste. Sweet tooth or more practical?" Ari leaned against the counter, and Nate caught a hint of vanilla and flour clinging to his clothes. "Though honestly, you can't go wrong with my aunt's honey wheat bread. It's what built this place's reputation."
"Your aunt's recipe?"
"Sofia. She opened Blue Moon thirty years ago." Pride and something deeper—grief, maybe—flickered across his expression. "She left it to me six months ago."
The simple statement carried weight that Nate recognized from his own experience with loss. "I'd love to try the honey wheat, then. Seems like the right way to honor a legacy."
