Though I avoided him, he always he spotted me, even from a distance, and always he called me by name and spoke to me as if we had a history, as if he had touched me in all my tender places. He left me a five-dollar tip for a six-dollar breakfast.įor months after that I crossed paths with him everywhere-in the bookstore, on the sidewalk, at the bar. He asked my name, and I told him, though some part of me wanted to keep it for myself. I was wearing a black skirt with white socks and I became suddenly aware of my bare knees. He sat by the window and when I came to take his order, his eyes traced my body. I worked the breakfast shift and tips were terrible: two quarters left next to an empty cup, one dollar next to an egg-streaked plate. The following year I took a job waiting tables. I concluded that she was lucky to have him. Though she was lovely, with auburn hair piled loosely atop her head, she looked like somebody’s grandmother, while he still had swagger. Sometimes the wife leaned into her husband as he pointed to the slice of pound cake he wanted. There was an older couple who visited the bakery every Saturday and always came in holding hands. I slept alone every night for over a year.

One of them hid under my bed and the other one cried until I let him outside. When I went home my apartment was empty, except for two cats who avoided me. Sometimes they pointed at a particular pastry-the biggest cinnamon roll, for instance, or the darkest croissant-and I would have to move my arm slowly until I reached the right one. Customers would point at pastries in a case, and I would hand them those pastries, my hand sheathed in a thin vinyl glove. When I was twenty-two and single, I worked behind the counter at a bakery.

The Other Mothers by Jennifer Berney