Brace
Elias had eaten at the same restaurant for breakfast, lunch, and dinner for seven days.
He tipped well and minded his business, so they got to liking him.
They started offering him free things with his food.
A plate of berries he sent back. Pickled beets, different dippings. He always said a polite “no thank you.”
The day that Victor’s train pulled into the station, Elias was eating dinner. The woman who served him went to his table and placed a slice of cake in front of him.
“Homemade. Mine,” she said in accented German. She didn’t know much. She looked proud.
It was beautiful, golden yellow, many layers with cream between them, and smelled so much like summer that Elias had to close his eyes and lean in. When Elias opened them, she had left.
He took the edge of his fork and ran it along the side picking up crumbs and cream. Then he brought the tines to his tongue. Flavor burst like sunrise, and it made his teeth ache. He could not eat this, but for the first time ever, he really wanted to.
Elias sat there, staring at the dessert. He could feel the tether between him and Victor pulling and pulling until it got close enough to go slack, then started tightening again as Victor passed him.
He felt the desire to run after him but didn’t. It felt . . . it felt like weakness, too. Like Victor was dragging him on a rope like a dog.
Elias sat there and stared at his cake, not eating it for almost an hour. Until the waitress came by and took it from him with a resigned, “You don’t need to.”
“Entschuldigung,” Elias apologized, bowing his head.
He stood and walked out of the restaurant and across town and up the hill to Yaroslav’s house.