Page 94 of The Mafia's Christmas Baby
Mr. Leon rings me up, slower than necessary, and then reaches under the counter to slide a small paper bag toward me.
“For your mother,” he says. “She likes the sesame cookies.”
“She will ask why I didn’t pay,” I say.
“You can pay in stories,” he says. “Tell her I asked if she is still shouting at the television.”
“She is,” I say.
He smiles like that was the correct answer.
When I step back outside, the street looks the same and not the same.
The SUV is still there, angled like a foot in a doorway.
A man with a knit cap stands at the bus stop pretending the schedule will change if he stares long enough.
Another man ties his shoe at the corner for a length of time that suggests he forgot how laces work.
Maybe these are just men.
Maybe today is the day I get to be wrong about danger and right about breakfast.
My phone buzzes again.
It is not a number I recognize.
I don’t open it.
Then Nico’s name lights the screen, half-covered by my thumb.
He has sent a photo of the same bad knot and three words.
You still mad?
I am not mad.
I am something that could start with M and end with terrified if I let it.
I type,Not mad. Busy. Call you later.
My finger hovers over send.
I eraselaterand writesoon.
I erasesoonand writetoday.
I put the phone away before I start revising the dictionary.
At the corner a woman with a stroller smiles at me because women with strollers know things they do not say.
I smile back and step into the crosswalk with her.
The light changes and the cars in the first lane do that small lurch that means everyone is impatient.
The stroller’s wheel catches a crack.
I reach to lift it over.
