Page 44 of The Life-Changing Magic of Falling in Love

I glance at my phone. I suppose I could call my mother. Or my sister. Or my brother.

Or I could go sit in Oscars where I could avoid giving my family the impression I’m lonely. Also, the coffee and cookies would be better. Carlos and Oz might be on their one day off together but I could have an end-of-shift gossipy chat with their other member of staff.

Small talk will help.

Small talk will save me.

Plus, I would be exactly twenty-seven steps from my apartment, yet legitimately outside in the world.

I hook my pen over the dog-eared cover of my pocket-sized crossword puzzle book, pick up my phone, shove my arms through my jacket and head for the door.

* * *

By the time I’m nearing Oscars, I already know it will be closed. The subway was shut. Rat on the line or something. I didn’t stay long enough to read the notice. Instead, I chose to half-walk, half-run the couple of miles, as I concentrated fiercely on not ploughing into one of the other millions trying to escape the steadily falling rain.

Woman on a mission, that’s me. Get to Oscars and escape from being too in my head. A place where it’s not always Home Sweet Home. I mean I work hard to make it comfortable and homey but sometimes it feels full of spiky furniture, catastrophic scenarios, and a sort of embarrassed feeling for not being able to find a new tribe.

‘Ooomph!’

I come to an abrupt stop as I crash into an immovable object right outside the bakery. As I register the cartons of milk lying on the floor between me and the rock-like obstacle I look up, up, up and oh … a smile breaks out on my face. ‘Ozzie-Baby. My knight in chef’s whites!’

‘You should watch where you’re going.’

I don’t even question what he’s doing here, I’m too thankful for the serendipity. ‘You going to let us in,’ I say. ‘Or stand here in the pouring rain crying over spilt milk?’ I bend to pick up as many cartons of milk as I can carry.

‘I’m going to let me in. You probably have somewhere you need to be.’

Wow, bad mood alert. ‘What are you doing here on a Saturday night anyway?’

‘Choreo,’ he answers flippantly.

Undeterred by the mood – because, hello? Daily occurrence with Oz – I grin up at him. ‘Okay, what are we choreographing? I have some moves. I can help.’

‘No. No. And no.’

I squint through the rain at him and see that he really is dressed in his chef’s whites. ‘You’re here to bake?’

‘Funny that.’

‘But it’s a Saturday.’

‘I’m aware.’

‘But you – where’s Carlos?’

‘Out.’

‘Out?’

‘You don’t see him here, do you?’

Call me Captain Obvious but I’ve an inkling about the reason for the blacker-than-usual black mood. ‘You’d rather talk about anything else at all, wouldn’t you?’

‘I’d rather not talk at all. I’m here for some peace and quiet. Some?—’

‘Solitude,’ I whisper, finally getting it. One man’s anathema is another man’s panacea and all that.

‘And the light dawns. So, if you don’t mind?’

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