The glass doors split open. He grabs a cart and circles it through the fruits and vegetables, and then the bakery, spotting her there. She wears black fleece and blue jeans, her hair tied up in a ponytail that bobs when she walks. In one hand she carries a basket weighed down by oranges and bananas. She stops to inspect the baguettes before tucking one under her arm like a child pretending to be slain by a sword.She starts off again and he pushes his cart forward in such a hurry that he nearly strikes a boy who comes wandering around a table stacked high with boxes of doughnuts. He has a bowl-shaped haircut and sad brown eyes. Maybe he is eight, maybe eleven—Brian doesn’t feel particularly apt at judging the ages of children. “Sorry,” both of them say. And then the boy is on his way, but not before putting his hand up in a gesture of apology and departure.His arm is covered in a raw-looking birthmark. It is hard not to stare. The skin appears smeared all over in raspberry jam. Brian forces his gaze elsewhere.
