On the way to the bus stop I stopped to look in the window of the bakery. At least my picture wasn’t on display, but some yummy-looking cookies were... I was debating whether to buy any when the owner spotted me and beckoned me in. He looked like a baker—round and soft– and always with a big smile on his face. His bald head was usually obscured by his baker’s hat. As soon as the door closed behind me, he turned the sign to say CLOSED. I looked around and, indeed, the sketch of me was hanging on. And the longer we were together, the longer he was inside of me. I wondered if I would ever want anyone else again. We paused and he broke away from me, not letting go of my head. He stared into my eyes as if he was trying to figure something out. Trying to figure me out. If anyone else would have done this I would have felt violated, but not him. I would have gladly opened myself up to him if he would have asked. Or if I would have given him the proper chance. “I don’t understand,” he. More

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