Vanilla Braid
We exited the café to a gust of leaves and frost dew.
“Ooooouiiii,” Irene shuttered, and I brought the collar of my coat to my chin. The same gust dislodged a cloud and the sun broke through onto the street, showing mercy on our chilled cheeks.
“Thank you very much,” she said as I let the door close behind her. Two small metal ringed tables flanked the entrance. They each sported two seats, though they would require whoever was seated to snuggle up if they wished to share what little real estate the glossy tops offered. The one on our right gleamed by the window, the seats’ cream upholsteries broiling under the glow of a human-sized salamander.
“Here we are. Lovely warm,” She said, manipulating the chairs with surprising ease, jostling them to sit side by side. I set the pastries on the table top and brought my hands to opposite sides of the metal ring, shifting it closer to the orange rodded glow. Her positioning left enough room to not full on cuddle, but feel each other’s warmth as we sat.
“The seat’s—,” I began, hopping up and down to readjust, “heated!” Our shoulders pressed against each other and we did not say anything. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Irene’s head tilting up, and I turned to see she had closed her eyes and was staring blindly into the sun.
“Mmm,” she breathed.
I closed my eyes.
“Mm,”
We stayed like this for a minute. Neither of us said a word, but pressed against each other beneath two warm glows. I wondered what it would be like to be her in her little body. Flitting into cafes with the softest hands, grabbing a stranger, drinking sun.
“Mmm.”
“hmm.”
What do you want?…
“nice.”
…Concretely
“hmm.”
Part of me does not want to say it and part of me does. Part of me knows it and part of me does not. Not knowing what I am saying, just speaking blindly. Blind to my own voice.
“How do you think about the parts?” Irene responded. My eyes opened and I turned to her, but her eyes were still closed and her head reclined to the blaring sky. Did I speak? I closed my eyes again.
“What do you mean?”
“Do you think of the parts inside you like little people?”
Did I speak? When did I say this. I must have said this already, inside. I must have started the conversation and forgotten where we’d left off, and she knew it was all I was thinking of. She must have seen and known I didn’t have a clue which one of my feet I stepped with when, much less where they were taking me.
“Mm.”
“When I don’t know what I think. When I am making a decision, or in distress, or anything at all really, it’s like there are all these little people inside of me that are my parts.”
“Hmm,” I began, imagining what it would be like to listen, “Yes. When you put it like that. But the people are—,” I softened my stare, letting my eyes fall open beneath my eyelids, “blurry. I think I’d have to be dreaming to really see them. Or ask them very quietly.”
“That is the only way these things are done. Very quietly.” We breathed. A chorus of tinny bells sang down on us from above. I felt a great warmth layering on me.
“Oooouuuiiiiiiiiii,” A shivering soprano sang, then an alto “br. br. br,” Tapping heels descend,
“Tip… tap..tip….tap.”
“I’ve had… enough —
“You’re telling…
me!”
Alto,
“… there’s no windbreak. They should have known…’’
Breaking. Trotting off
“tip tap tip tap tipp tappp tiiiippppp taaapppppp.”
“I used to think that God would come down and speak to me somewhere. Somewhere out…” I heard the rustling of paper and opened my eyes, realizing she had begun to unwrap our treats. She gestured to the street by the wagging of her pursed lips,
“There. In the world. Something like a person speaking, or Father Oro on a day where he is feeling a special connection with the spirit,” She placed one of the braids on a flattened pastry bag in front of me and began doing the same for herself,
“‘We lack imagination. And it is also all we have,” She brought a thumb to her lips and kissed off the flaky glaze, “hmmm. Please! Go ahead. Try it,” She flapped her hands at me angrily and I reached for the twist, “Say a little grace is all.. go ahead.. Yes!” I held it and looked at her, then at the sweet helix between my fingers, frozen dumb. I kept it in my hand as I bowed my head, silently
Dear… Lord… please bless this….. into my body
Thank you…
…And bless her
Amen
I don’t know the last time I did that. I opened my eyes to her silent stare. I brought the braid to my mouth and broke the sugar surface of the bread with my teeth, pulled by lips, tongue swimming through gooey good sweet dough and crust marrying my cheeks.
“God… does not speak,” She nodded as she took a bite of her braid. Chewing intently, closing her eyes, nodding only more. She swallowed. She set down her bread and brought a napkin to her mouth, dabbing gently each corner, then folding and setting it back on the table.
“… with words,” She looked to me with the stern look, then a gracious smile, and then serious again.
“But through feeling.” She reached for the braid and took another bite.