The Sugar Cookie

Enzo asks, "How can you trust that little bitch over me? He humiliated you in public, but you trust him. He won't even talk to you no more. But you think I called the IRS on you and reported you? Not him. After all the years we've known each other. How can you? That's pretty fucked up.”

In his good ole boy way Enzo tried to make Myra feel guilty. With faded, jailhouse tattoos and his salt and pepper hair thinning, he’s becoming a shadow of an immature, charming fool before you know what damage he can do. His demeanor reminded her of the years of manipulation and abuse for his pleasure and she couldn't believe that such a thin veil ever hid the truth behind his motive. To control her. To keep her attached to him just in case he needed to use her. If there is decency in him, Myra surely has never seen it.

She looks at him, sitting on her well worn, blue floral couch, drinking her coffee, eating her food and unconvincingly trying to decree his victimhood while demanding the kind of compassion that’s never reciprocated. And why in Enzo’s mind should this kind of ruthless emotional terrorism be allowed to continue? Because he wanted it to. There’s no deeper well to Enzo. This isn’t a matter of star crossed lovers for which circumstances have always been against them. The only effort Enzo put into their relationship was to destroy it and then pretend it was Myra who had done something to drive him to do it. He’d steal her money, strangle her, or kick her in the stomach when she was pregnant, and somehow in his mind he believed she deserved it. He gave it his all, when trying to blame Myra for why he was a monster. He is the embodiment of a spoiled, upper middle class brat who ran with the bad kids until his mommy and daddy paid him to stop.

There is no evidence of a soul or conscience. He lives for his own pleasure and feels no responsibility or concern towards anything than its pursuit. Personal gratification and satisfaction in every form at the cost of anyone. He is a member of the worst of humanity and he is without a doubt a contender for one of Dante’s darker places. He has two children other than Oliver (the one he shares with Myra) and he has abandoned them all. He goes months, sometimes years without speaking to them, if he has something better to do. Were he not obsessed with a life of hurting Myra, he wouldn't bother with Oliver at all. He feels justified in behaving this way and truthfully cannot understand why his children loathe him. The fact Myra finds herself with a twisted pity for him has made her question her own sanity. It is sympathy for the devil, and she knows that must be some kind of sin.

Myra replies with absolute seriousness as she leans forward, with an excited grin. "You cannot imagine how happy I am that you asked because now I get to tell you.” Her smile shaped her words while she takes this opportunity to talk about Patrick. “When Oliver was 10, we would go into LekkerBakery to get a sugar cookie every Sunday. Oliver loved those cookies. They came in all kinds of shapes. Animals, flowers, mythical creatures, and characters that reflected which ever holiday was closest. The cookies would be drenched in a finely grated, pastel sugar. They seemed to sparkle under the fluorescent lights in the clear glass counters, making them irresistible to children.”

“Yeah, I get it. Cookies.” Enzo always became agitated when Myra used adjectives. He considers it an insult. As if she is trying to confuse him. It never dawned on him that she loves words, and to use them to create a picture is something that makes her happy. Myra thought how like Enzo it is to be so dismissive to imagery and incapable of appreciating the description. He is only waiting to hear what it is about Patrick that makes him better in Myra’s mind. He has never been able to figure it out because he weighs their relationship in orgasms. A different scale than Myra uses.

Myra looks to the ground with fondness of the memory she is sharing. Her long, dark brown hair hitting her neck reminded her of what it feels like when Patrick would brush it back before he lay his head to her skin with tenderness and cautious movement.

“I took Oliver (who was 10) and my niece Amanda (who was about 12 at that time) into LekkerBakery to get their usual Sunday morning cookie fix. The kids flung open the heavy metal paned door and went running to the glass case that housed all the decedent treats. Amanda always got a lemon square, and Oliver, he went straight for the cookies. With all the choices, I couldn’t understand why he always went for the blue brontosaurus. I’d say to him, ‘What about the purple cactus? What about the silvery crescent moon?’ But no it was the blue brontosaurus that was his favorite. It struck me as odd, mainly because Oliver never had any particular interest in dinosaurs. I walked through the door and I was immediately struck immobile and mute. It was Patrick behind the counter. He had just moved back to the area after having been in New Jersey for about 5 years. We had not seen or spoken to each other since…” Myra had no intention of ever sharing that story with Enzo. That was her and Patrick, and Enzo had no right to it. “... before Oliver was born."

Enzo smiled with fiendish satisfaction. “That's because your needed a daddy, not a big baby.”

Myra looks at him and rolls her eyes. “Can I finish my story without you trying to make it about you and your gross Daddy/Daughter fetish? Myra says with tired annoyance.

“Like you didn't fucking love it?” Enzo replies with arrogant certainty. His midwestern accent mixed with the Nevada drawl give his words a dirtier feel. A flash of a nasty night seizes a second in Myra’s mind.

“That's not really the point is it?” Myra replies. “You can acquire an appetite for distasteful things when there's no other way to survive.”

“Yeah that's right, you're the victim.” Enzo says in his usual chauvinistic tone while shifting his penis, in his jeans by habit. He excited himself thinking about sex with Myra. She can see it in him, and decides to ignore it.

“You were the one who wanted me to act like one. So, I acted like one for so long, I allowed myself to become one. It's not entirely your fault. But, the fact that I did it to make you happy, well you need to ask yourself why you need that so badly.” Myra said sanguine.

Enzo, irritated by the suggestion of introspection, “Just fucking get on with your story.”

“So anyway, Patrick was as stunned as I was. We were silent for what seemed like 5 minutes, but Oliver assures me it was about half a minute because he had looked up to see what had struck his usually chatty mother, silent. The entire situation was so uncomfortable that I lost all brain function. Seriously, I stood there silent, looking at Patrick.” Myra looks down again, trapped in thought and smiles with the feeling of warmth coming over her describing Patrick, “His beautiful freckled, olive skin shined under his white bakers uniform.” Myra closes her eyes and continues to speak. “His deep red curls, tamed, but still not styled. My god there's never been a time that I wouldn't run my fingers through his hair and pet him. He always let me, even the first day I met him. But now, things were different. I didn't have the right to touch him. I was afraid if I tried he would move away. I'd rather restrain myself from petting him, than have him deflect my advance.”

She quietly laughs and wonders if he is still self conscious about his hair. “He always hated his hair. And those big, round brown eyes, looking at me with the memory of the last time we made love coming back to him.”

Enzo’s watching Myra with increasing jealousy. He knew she was remembering making love to Patrick by the way she crosses her legs. His vanity keeps him from admitting it bothers him. Instead he passively lashes out. “Too bad he's only five feet tall.” Enzo is confident that the 5 inches he towers over Patrick will somehow make the violent memories he shares with Myra more important. It didn't.

Myra says in defense, “He's the same height as me. 5’5.”

“Whatever. Is this story ever going to end?” Enzo asks as if it is exhausting for him to do anything other than watch murder porn and play “Clash of Clans.” Myra didn’t engage in the argumentative banter Enzo is trying to start. She knows for him it is foreplay. Myra continues her story.

“I said hello to him. And he said, ‘Hello Myra.’ Oliver could see that I didn't know what to do with myself. He noticed Patrick’s discomfort as well. So, he decided to break the silence.”

‘Mama, can I get two cookies?’ “Oliver’s question snapped Patrick and I both back from our lumbering trance.

“Patrick immediately replied to Oliver, ‘Sure chief. If mommy says it's ok,’ Oliver was already curious about who Patrick was and calling him chief gave him the ammunition he needed to challenge this man that shook his mother silent.”

“ ‘My name is Oliver and my Mother...probably...won't be ok with it.’ I let Oliver be cheeky, but one look and he knew to get the attitude in check. So I of course said no to the request for a second cookie. I'd have to buy Amanda two lemon squares. Oliver figured my distraction would allow for my attention to be distracted enough to agree to anything. Kids can be opportunistic when sugar is involved.”

Enzo’s discomfort satisfies Myra. She didn't hope for Enzo to feel this way, but figures since he does, she may as well appreciate it. It's a rare thing to put a narcissist off his game, and like a perfectly poached egg in a Denny’s, should be acknowledged for its infrequency and achievement. Myra stands up, “Did you want a beer? I need one.”

Enzo answers back, “Yeah, I'll take one. You have any bourbon?”

In a flash, Myra remembers the violent nights that ended with the taste and smell of bourbon and Marlboro cigarettes as Enzo forced his tongue into her mouth, holding her arms down by the wrists, before and as he violently had sex with her. Her back is to him as her expression turns to revulsion at the thought. With anger in her voice answers back, “No!” She takes two beers from the refrigerator, opens them in the kitchen, and walks into the living room.

“Still bringing daddy his beers.” Enzo takes the bottle with self satisfaction. His memories of his time with Myra are fond ones. They were the only time he ever really felt like a man. He still tried to exert some kind of dominance over Myra with digs like the latter, but that time has passed for Myra. She buries it as deep as she can, so she can forget the years she became what someone else wanted her to be. That version of Myra is now out of print.

Myra sits back down and drinks her beer. The cold, dark ale runs down her throat with a hint of nutmeg finishing on her tongue. She smiles with the memory of buying Patrick beer when he was 20, and how excited he would get when she did. Enzo thinks her smile is because of him. She let him have that.

“So, back to it.” Myra said resting her beer on her leg. The condensation creates a ring on her jeans. “I walked towards the glass counter where Patrick was standing and he watched me. I realized at that moment I was wearing a 5 year old, hooded, pull over sweatshirt with stains and a pair of jeans that should have been washed two days before. My hair in a dollar store clip and my purse shaped like an owl, because the kids loved it. I couldn't have looked less sexy. I reeked of motherhood. But Patrick, still looked at me like he did that first day we met. The look of incomprehension of your own intuition. It feels like you're in a day dream and you could swear you've stopped breathing.”

Myra no longer notices Enzo sitting across from her. She falls backwards into the daydream and continues to speak. “I said to him, ‘I didn't know you were back.’ and he answered, ‘Yup, for a while now. I just started working here.’ He said it like it was a justification. I then of course answered back as awkwardly, ‘I take the kids here for cookies on Sunday.’ I wished I hadn't said that because I feared he would purposely not work on Sundays in order to avoid me. We both stood there, not moving, waiting for the other to speak. How could this be the same boy who’s freckles I traced into words? How could this be the boy who kissed me like I was in a movie? Why wasn’t he kissing me right there? Why wasn't I running my hands through his hair? Why were we strangers now? And then I remembered. Because of me.” She laments.

“Oliver looked on in what seemed to be a kind of fear. He had never seen me so flabbergasted. Amanda had already gotten her lemon square from the teenage girl on the other end of the counter and sat happily at the bistro table devouring her decadent Sunday treat. But Oliver, he was uneasy. For the record, I only know this because he told me a couple years ago. I was so distracted by Patrick that everything around me was blurred.” She flutters her hands in front of her eyes.

“Yeah well that's probably from your fucked up eye thing.” Enzo said to try and bring her high down.

She looks at him and replies, “I had my prosthetic lenses by then.”

He rolls his eyes, “Can we just get this story over with. So far I still have no idea why you can trust his word over mine. You’re just giving me some bullshit story like you’re reading a book or some shit.”

She looks Enzo directly in the eye. “ What’s your basis of comparison? Like you’ve read a book? Ever? This story is mine. And this is only a piece of it. If the way I tell it somehow offends your sense of illiteracy, please feel free to leave, and like the many times before, once your gone, I'll close my eyes and finish alone.”

Enzo replies agitated, “Whatever, I haven't finished my beer yet. I may as well sit through the rest.” He wants to wait it out. He has to hear how frivolous her reasoning is. There is no way in Enzo’s mind, Patrick could ever compare to what they are. He needs to know what Patrick could have done to change that. Myra continues her story.

“Oliver decided at that point he had enough of the situation. ‘Mama, can you get me the cookie I want. You know which one I want.’ “

“Patrick looked over at him and said, ‘Oliver, how about you point to the cookie you want, and I'll get it for you?’ I could see Oliver wanted to be insolent and rude. But Patrick’s kindness makes that impossible. His smiles are honest and sweet. Even the adored, only son of a devoted, single mother couldn't hate him.”

“ ‘Could I have the blue one, thats under the green one, behind the red one?’ Patrick moved with precision and put his wax paper covered finger on top of the blue dinosaur cookie. ‘This one?’ he asked Oliver and Oliver smiled at him, nodding his head. ‘Yes, please.’ Patrick took the cookie off the tray, and not a single crumb or grain of sugar fell from it. He has a respect and love for food unlike anyone I have ever known. It's like he was born to be a chef. He takes real pride in that craft. I was so jealous of how much he loved cooking and food. It was one of the only times in my life I felt like a dumb girl. I knew if it came between me and being a chef, it would be me tossed to the hamper, and not his apron. That's what makes it so disappointing that he’s a laborer now. He's lost all his passion for food. He let it go, and a broken heart is no excuse.”

“See. Because he’s a little bitch.” Enzo said with pride.

An angry sigh shot from her throat, “He feels things deeply. When Patrick loves you, he doesn’t hold back, and he doesn’t have a reason. He just loves you, even if he knows deep down, you'll break his heart. He is kindness made flesh, and for someone who walked out on three kids, three different times for pigs that spread easier than peanut butter, you shouldn't be talking.”

“Whatever.” Enzo replied.

“So what was the appeal, really? Cocaine or blown out pussy? Was it snorting cocaine off a blown out pussy?” Myra laughs while she taunts Enzo’s bad decisions. He looks at her with increasing anger, which urges her to stop. Not because she was afraid of him, but because after years of sexual abuse at the hands of Enzo, seeing him angry triggers her to sexual arousal. It is one thing she knows she will never be able to escape from. So she hides it, deep down in a place where other traumas play.

Myra wonders if Patrick remembers the night he spent an hour telling her about making ghee. She couldn't have been more uninterested in a subject, but listened because of the excitement in his voice of having learned and perfected a method for making this clarified butter. She wishes she could ask Patrick if he remembers that she was the first person he called to tell. And if now that he is older he understands just how bored she was, and that she listened to him, because she loved to hear him tell her stories.

“You've always been a jealous bitch.” Enzo said as if Myra would find it complimentary that he took the time to remind her of her less mature self.

“I wasn't jealous of his job, I was jealous of how much he loved it. The fact he had a 40 year old, rich, manipulative, cunt of boss who wanted to fuck him didn't make it any easier, but that is a different story.” Myra has contempt in her voice.

“I would have quit that job for you.” Enzo said.

“You would have been fired long before you had a chance to quit, and I would have been who you blamed.” Myra’s droll reply made Enzo smile.

“So anyway, Patrick put the cookie in one of those white, wax lined paper bags. Folded it closed and handed it to Oliver, who took the bag and said, ‘Thank you.’ Patrick smiled at him and said, ‘Your welcome.’ ‘Can we leave now, Mama?’ Oliver asked. Go sit with Amanda for now my love, and we will leave in a minute.”

“Oliver walked over to the table, keeping his eyes on me the whole time. He knew something was up. ‘It was good to see you, Patrick.’ I said and I meant it. He didn't say anything back. He just looked down at the counter and fiddled with the ticket spike. His hands were rough, and were covered with the hieroglyphics of a chef. I waited for him to say something, and he did. He looked right at me and said, ‘Can I get you anything else?’ It was so impersonal.”

“No, just the lemon square and the cookie. I answered back.

“ ‘That's $1.70.’ He stood there behind the register while I took out my wallet. I handed him two dollars and when he gave me back my change the tips of his fingers touched my palm and I wanted to close my hand onto his. I resisted. I dropped my change in the white, doodle covered, styrofoam coffee cup the workers were using for tips.”

“He just stood there waiting for me to say something else. I wanted to tell him how sorry I was about the way things ended. I wanted to tell him it was all my fault and that he had done nothing wrong. I wanted to plead with him to forgive me and give me another chance at being the friend I should have been. But I didn't do any of those things. ‘Patrick…’ I started to say, and he looked up at me quick, eyes wide and mouth slightly opened, breathing in deep as if he knew the words I was about to say would be the ones he had been waiting to hear since the morning we said our ruinous goodbye. Just then Oliver interrupted, ‘Mama, can we go now?’”

“I put my wallet in my purse and Patrick said, ‘Looks like you've got to go.’ I looked at him and said, I probably should, huh? Shoulders back, eyes no longer waiting, Patrick paused for about 5 seconds then said, ‘Yup. You should.’ “

“See. he's an asshole.” Enzo said with his army brat accent.

“He's not an asshole. He was just trying to take control in a situation that he normally wouldn't have any control over.” Myra defends Patrick, again.

“Nah, he's just an asshole.” Enzo repeats.

“He was uncomfortable, and it was his place of business. There was still residual hatred in him for me, and I could feel it. He really didn't need the stress of me where he worked. Considering it was food service, I'm sure it was hellish enough in there without the lingering memory of a really bad ending. So I said, ‘Let's go guys. Say thank you to Mr. Clarke.’ “

“Both the kids said in hymn-like unison, ‘Thank you, Mr. Clarke.’ Patrick smiled and waved bye to the kids as we walked out the door. I looked back to see if he was watching us leave, but he was gone. He had retreated to the kitchen as soon as he could get away.”

“I decided, no more Lekkerbakery after that. But Sunday rolled around and the kids wanted their treats. I agreed to take them to the bakery, but once we got there I gave Amanda the money and told them both to get what they wanted and I would be waiting in the car. Oliver didn't give me any trouble. He didn't want me going in there anyway. They took the money, hopped out of the car and went in the bakery. Oliver looked back at me before he walked through the bakery door. It confused him to see me like that. “

“To see you like what?” Enzo asks with accusation.

“Vulnerable.” She is without shame.

“Why would you let that little dork make you feel that way?” Enzo’s insult is propelled by his own insecurities (there are many), and not any concern for Myra.

“I never let Patrick do anything. It was how I felt. It was years of mistakes, uncomfortable changes and a collection of undefined but buried emotions that kept me in the car. I had no right to want him again.” She leans back, putting her hands over her eyes. “I could tell that when he saw me, there was an upsetting comfort and I could see it because I felt it too. What we were never died. It was still there after all these years. That feeling that fools you for a few minutes, until you realize you left that love injured, maimed, broken, and alone, but still it wasn't dead.” She removes her hands from her face and extends them out, looking at the tears on them, in all seriousness, and then looks up at Enzo. “How could it not be dead?” Her eyes wild with frustrated confusion and her lips apart enough to let the warning of a congestion filled breath alert her to a near cry.

She composes herself and Enzo asks with defeated kindness, “Do you want me to get you another beer?”

“No. But could you get me the vodka out of the freezer?” She asks, eyes closed, clearing her throat. He walks into what was once their kitchen.

Enzo takes two glasses out of the metal, chipped blue paint cabinets above the deep, white porcelain sinks. He remembered living there, standing behind Myra, holding her while she washed the last few glasses in the sink. The same glasses sit in his hand, while thinking about how much they loved each other, and wondered, if when Myra talked about him, the same desperate regret that violently haunts her with Patrick, was even more heartfelt for him. However, he is doubtful. There is a shock to his system seeing an emotion from Myra he hadn't seen in the thirty years they've known each other. He wonders if it is new. Something born just now, in front of him. He convinces himself that her unfamiliar abandon made them something much more than her and Patrick ever were. It doesn’t. That is no new emotion. It was born the morning she left Patrick there, at his house, with the fractured shards of broken mug in his backyard as she drove home through tears, tortured by the smell of his skin still trapped in her clothes. .

Enzo takes the vodka out of the freezer, with the ziplock bag of ice that lay underneath it. Putting the ice in the glass, he asks, “How much vodka do you want?”

Myra recoils at the unsophisticated inability of Enzo. “Just put three ice cubes in the glass and then pour enough to come about half an inch from the top of the glass.” She has to speak in step by step directions to Enzo. She smiles at the reminder that her son Oliver is very much the same way, but hoped to herself that he would grow out of that kind of chronic inability long before he reaches the age of 47. It's a strange phenomenon in humanity that qualities of one person can repel you, while those same qualities in another person can seem charming or sweetly simple. It could be all in the presentation. Or the fact that Myra loves her son and feels nearly nothing for Enzo, could allow for the immediate forgiveness of otherwise maddening traits.

Enzo places Myra’s glass in front of her. He is clearly on his second glass. Enzo is a brown liquor drinker, so vodka can leave him feeling very unfull. If he drinks too much of it that will be a problem for Myra. “You need to slow down. You have to drive back to your hotel. The shots, most likely out of my bottle, might impair you.” Myra lectures him.

“What? You don't want me to get killed?” He said in a whispery, affectionate voice.

Myra’s face reveals a nauseated sensation. “No, I don't want you sleeping here.” She is serious.

“Why? I'm not gonna try nothin’.” He lied.

“That's not it.” Myra replies.

“What then? You don't need me here anymore?” He says through an arrogant chuckle. Myra takes Enzo’s self adoration as a personal insult.

Myra took a drink of her vodka and after the cold elixir left her mouth she says, looking into her drink, “I never needed you here, Enzo.” She looks up and assaults his glance, “I wanted you here. But that wasn't enough for you to not be an asshole, everyday. Me wanting you, choosing you over someone who loved me because you told me you needed me. That just wasn't enough for you to be even remotely grateful. Still to this day, you have no consideration for what I gave up for you. So, please, be absolutely sure, that I never needed you, and now, I don't want you either.”

“Well Oliver…” Enzo nearly got the words out when Myra stops him.

“Shut your fucking mouth. Don't you dare use Oliver to justify your inability to leave me alone. Oliver has never been your reason for anything other than feeling bad for yourself. As if there isn’t already enough proof of that, but the fact that the one time you’ve come back here in 15 years is because the court wanted to raise your support payment from $58 dollars to $75 dollars. You got your ass here real quick to shut that down. How much did that plane ticket cost you? How much is that hotel costing you? You worthless, selfish sack of dog shit.” The anger and malice in Myra’s voice is accompanied by tense muscles. It alerts him to give up this fight he knows he can’t win. She closed her eyes, breathes deep and lets it go. “You ever try to use my son to try and fuck me again and I’ll knock you’re teeth down your throat.” Enzo knows she means it.

“Now, if you don't mind, I'll get back to it.” She’s calm. “Now, where was it I left off?”

“The kids were getting their cookies on their own with you in the car.” Enzo reminds her.

“Amanda always got a lemon square.” She corrects him.

“Yeah, whatever. It doesn't matter.” Enzo replied.

“Details matter, Enzo. You change the details, you've changed the story and you've changed enough of my story. “ Myra speaks with dark sarcasm and Enzo, though notoriously opposed to indirect insult (mainly because he rarely picked up on it) let this one slide, because he knows she is right. And Enzo, he would rather cowardly back out of a challenge then take it on if there's the option of losing. That's one of the most fascinating things about the children of the upper middle class. They only take on something they know has no real risk. They complain about the injustice of others while benefiting from the very system that creates the perceived oppression. There's no real sense of morality. It's the allure of fashion that gives them a function because they are all just so bored with their privilege. But you won't see them at a soup kitchen serving the homeless and poor, and you won't see them volunteering at a state run group home for children. That would be unpleasant. A repurposed metal table in a microbrewery will house the hypocrites cry for the bodies of children they've never seen, while their nieces and nephews receive no compassion because they aren't at a proper distance.

Instagram will store the memories of wilder times, until it serves as a portal to envy possessions. Keep a close eye on the future with these people. They will want the world sanitized because they think they are the only ones that should be allowed to be dirty. A space aged Dickensian wasteland where the idea of workhouses for the poor is appealing and holding your baby isn’t. Empathy and humor an offense to those who need to be offended because it makes them feel “something.” They never had the opportunity to feel anything other than offended because their parents just didn't have the time to let them. Enzo is a product and practitioner of this normalized desolate selfishness. His attachment is to Myra because she creates an emotion he hadn't had before or since. He doesn’t know what it is and she never knew it existed. That is a secret he keeps to himself and it's been hidden too long to reveal it now.

“I could see the kids through the glass on the door. They ran to the counter and Patrick wasn't there. A young girl with long blonde hair smiled at them and I can only assume asked them what they wanted. Amanda got her lemon square, and Oliver, well he went right to the case with the cookies. Just then Patrick walked in from the back of the bakery. He smiled at Oliver and made a motion with his hands to assure Oliver that he knew exactly which cookie he wanted. I saw Patrick furrow his brow, and I knew that meant he asked Oliver a question. Both kids turned towards the door and pointed. I can only assume from my amature lip reading that they said, ‘She's in the car.’ He followed their fingers with his eyes and looked at me. He didn't wave, he just looked at me. He acknowledged that I was there. He knew why I didn't come in.”

“How do you know that?” Enzo asked.

“Because I know him. A few weeks went by that way. Every week the kids went into the bakery and they got their Sunday sweets. Amanda her lemon square and Oliver, his giant, blue dinosaur cookie. Those looks through that heavy, glass door made six days seem like train cars filled with people that I had to shuffle through, slowing me down, but I knew, if I kept moving, I would reach that door. And one tuesday morning while the kids were at school I had decided to walk through it.”

“I took a chance he might be working. I dropped the kids off at school and went back home to take a shower. I thought about wearing makeup and more flattering clothes while the warm water rushed over my head. I thought about dying my hair because the grey was getting more pronounced. I thought about all the things I could do that would be useless in attracting Patrick. I'd never known him to care about things like that, but then again, I hadn’t known him in a long time. So I dried up, threw on clean jeans,” They both chuckled. “...and a vneck shirt. I figured since he loved my breasts when we were together, why not give a sneak peak.” She cupped her breast and pushes them up in jest.

“When it came time to put on makeup, I wanted to be careful not to look ‘Made Up.’ So just a little sheer foundation, a micro thin, black line only on the top eyelid and some faintly tinted lip protector. No blush. If I were to wear blush he would know I was made up. Hair down, flowing freely. I was armed to take this chance.”

“Did you throw on some spike heels?” Enzo asks with the ayre of sleaze.

“Do I look like the kind of woman that wears high heels with jeans? Obviously not. I put on my good sneakers. They had pink laces, you know, for femininity.” They both laugh at the idea of that. Myra though womanly isn’t necessarily feminine in the way a “girl” should be. A woman need only be and the nature of who she is will come forward in everything she does. Conscious femininity is a pantomime. There is no doubt Myra is a woman, and she is never going to pay any attention to those who judge her because they have to prove it.

“I drove there, listening to some idiot DJ on the radio preach nonsense to an audience who wouldn't bother to fact check. I didn't want to listen to music because I wanted to go in without the intrusion of sentiment. I sat in the car in the parking lot, wondering if it was a good idea. Was I deluding myself that he might want to see me? He would know I went there to see him.” She remembers being nervous at the thought that Patrick might not be so kind if the kids weren't there. She remembers the sound of his voice when he screamed at her over a decade ago and the look in his eyes when he said he never wanted to see her again.

“Since when do you care what people think?” Enzo asks with a confused and almost angry look on his face.

“That's the thing, Enzo. He spins me. I didn't realize what that meant when I was younger, but trust that I know what it means now. So, I got out of the car and went in. There was a middle aged woman, short dark hair, and an apron that displayed the evidence of a long, productive morning. ‘Can I help you?’ she asked me.”

“I answered, ‘Sure. Could I please have one cannoli?’ “

“She smiled and said, ‘Sure. Chocolate chip, pistachio, strawberry or plain?’ Before I could answer, Patrick’s voice called out from behind me, ‘Plain.’

“He had walked into the storefront from a service door. I turned around quickly, and before I could get a word out he said, 'She's never liked anything too sweet.' I miss that sexy snarkiness. He asked, 'Are the kids in school?’

“I answered, yes. I was struck incapable of forming words. He had some flour in the side of his hair and it was clear he didn't know. He was close enough for me to touch his hair using the excuse that I wanted to brush the flour out.”

“That’s pathetic.” Enzo’s attempt to insult Myra is met with surprising results.

“I know! I told you, this kid spins me, man. I become this complete idiot around him. It was always like that. But he was so much younger, more immature with no comprehension of that kind of power. He knows now. I could tell by how confident he was. Patrick, when he was younger was never confident, unless he was cooking. Then his confidence was impossible to ignore. His posture and smile absolutely fantastic, but those eyes, those long lashes that always managed to catch the sun and glisten like spider web.” She is falling deep into the memory now. Enzo can see it, so in traditional fashion has to make sure he destroys any pleasure she feels that isn’t directly related to the appendage that holds his only worth.

“Do you think I care about what his eyelashes looked like?! Or that he’s more confident?! I don't care about this guy. Are you so shallow that those are the things that make you believe him over me?” Enzo, though genuinely resentful, is more dramatic in tone and action than he needed to be. Myra knows that unless Enzo shows tears, there is no way to tell if his actions are legitimate and not manipulative, and in this instance, is apathetic to either option. Patrick is in her mind now, and no person can distract her. Like a favorite song, when a memory of Patrick starts, Myra has to let it play through to the end. Maybe play it twice, if she has the time.

“I don't care if you care. If you don't want to hear why I’d trust Patrick with my son's life and I wouldn’t trust you with a letter to mail, then leave.” Myra said seriously and without hesitation.

Enzo replies, “There was a time when you begged me not to leave.”

Myra said frankly and unmoved, “No. There wasn't.” She sips her drink.

“Your a real cold bitch, you know that?” Enzo says with disgust in his face.

“You think so? As I suspected, you're not really listening.” She stands up, “You can leave now.” She walks towards the large, distressed green wooden door, a black, cable knit, sweater hanging in its window, drying from the air.

Enzo grabs her wrist, “Now come on wait a minute, don't get all worked up. I told ya I wanna know, so go on then and finish your story.” Myra fights back the instinctual rage to rip her arm from his grasp and punch him in the face. Since it wouldn't be leading to sex, there is absolutely no point to engage in violence with Enzo.

Myra spoke slowly and with unrecognizable force, “Get your fucking hand off me. And...if you ever touch me without an invitation again I'll send you back to Hell.”

Enzo sees in her eyes that she means it. He releases her wrist and looks down. “I'm sorry.” To which Myra replies, “You should be.”

Myra sits back down on the couch and Enzo is in false reflection of what just happened. He remembered that time between them as a happy. He’s confused that she doesn’t. He ponders honestly, to himself if she ever smiled when she thought of him. What he does not know, and would never understand, is that she didn't have to think of him. Her son had a great deal of his father’s characteristics. Not facially, but in movements and humor. She doesn’t have to remember him. Were it not for her son, she would have forgotten about him without regret decades ago. Enzo holds on to memories like they are currency to be used and traded for personal gain. To Myra, memories are gifts from the higher self and necessary to connect a person to who they are and to who they will be. She believes that the terrible memories of Enzo stay with her so that should would never be fooled by lust again. Pleasure without connection comes at a cost, and she won’t pay that hidden fee twice.

“So he has spider eyes, go on.” Enzo is purposely trying to annoy her. It arouses him.

“I said his lashes glistened like a spider’s web in the sun. not that he has spider eyes. Its imagery, you fucking Philistine.” She said while lighting a joint she took from her old, silver cigarette case.

“You still have that, uh? Still got Carlos too.” Enzo chuckles.

“Thank God for that.” Myra slowly exhales pot smoke, placing the case on the old, marked up coffee table.

“You know I hate that shit.” Enzo says as if she should have been more courteous of him.

“Well you know I hate you, yet...you still manage to linger. Kind of like this smoke, and like this smoke, they'll be nothing more than stale odor and exhaustion once your gone.” Enzo drops his bravado. His intentions will not be met today and the only excuse he has left to stay, is her story, and he knows she is self possessed enough to let him stay while she tells it.

“I walked closer to him. I lifted my right arm and put my hand to his head to brush away the flour. He stood still and let me, He didn't flinch. His hair was coarse, and I could smell the warm pastry baked into his clothes. He closed his eyes for a few seconds, letting me ease my fingers through his hair, touching his ear, and he breathed in slowly, while he rested his face against my palm. He looked, contented. And then he opened his eyes and it was over. He took my hand with his and I made my excuse. ’There was flour in your hair.” He held my hand in his for a few seconds, then let go.

“ ‘I know. It flies around all over the kitchen. I've gotten used to it being all over me.’ I laughed like an imbecile. This stupid, throaty, unimaginably embarrassing laugh, that was completely inappropriate for the situation. I immediately hated myself. He just laughed with me, and now that I'm looking back at it, he was most likely laughing at me.”

“Jesus, you really turn into a complete goon in front of this guy.”

“Yup. And our son has seen it, a few times.”

“Oh gawd.” Enzo winces at the thought.

“So anyway, goofiness aside, there was an uneasiness about him that had nothing to do with me. I asked him, ‘Is there something up?’ He replied, ‘I'm just so sick of this place. I'm getting talked to like I’m a kid all day. I'm sick of the people around here. I feel like I hate a lot of my friends these days.’ I knew what he meant and how he was feeling. I told him, ‘One day you wake up and you realize that you're surrounded with people you don't like and the ones that you do, you seldom see. Its natural, Patrick. It has to happen. It sucks, but you'll get through it.’ I assured him like I always had before. I wanted to.” She remembered Patrick smile and look down and feeling her heart lost to him again. He was still her Patrick at that moment. The new confidence and the passed years hadn’t taken away the blushing, shyness, of that boy with whom she fell in love the first night they met in that badly lit classroom.

“He said to me, ‘Will wants me to move to California and stay with him and the longer I’m here, the more I want to leave.’ He was confiding in me again, and it was exhilarating. I was silent, but listening while he told me everything he couldn't tell his friends and family. That's who we were to each other, someone to tell everything to. You know he called me once to tell me about a prize he got in a box of cereal.”

“Are you serious?” Enzo says sarcastically.

“It was sweet.”

“It’s lame as fuck.” Enzo counters.

“Whatever. So, anyway he talked for a while and at the end of it said, ‘So what do you think I should do?’ I wanted to say, ‘Move in with me.’ But that was just a bit irrational. So I asked, ‘What do you want to do? You know there's something you want to do, a choice that you’re leaning towards. What is it?’ I asked him, honestly.”

“ ‘My ex girlfriend, she moved back to France, which is why we broke up. She wants me to move there and try again.’ When he said that my heart shattered. It wasn't unusual for us to be open about other people we had been with, so him being so candid couldn't be considered inappropriate, but it hurt. I hid my feelings and said, ‘Patrick, what is it you really want to do?’ “

“ ‘What do you think I should do, Myra?’ He asked me again. So I asked him. ‘Do you love her?’

I wanted him to say ‘no’, or ‘I don't know’ or ‘maybe'. I wanted him to say anything but ‘yes.’”

“He hesitated in answering me.”

“I'll bet you loved that.” Enzo said assuredly.

“Yes. I did, but that didn't last long. He said, ‘I did. I think I still do.’ Patrick looked me right in the eye, and I wondered if he could see that it was killing me to hear it or if he was hoping it was. Regardless, I couldn't believe the words that came out of my mouth.”

“Then I guess you have your answer. You know where you want to be, Patrick, and it isn't here or with Will.“ I said hiding the feeling of loss.”

“He replied truthfully, ‘But what if I hate it and we don't work out? What if I regret it?’ I heard the desperation and uncertainty in his voice, and all I wanted to say was ’You can't trust her. If she loved you she would be here. If she let you go once, she will do it again.'' But instead I said, ‘But what if you don't?’

We both stood there, quiet for a moment. I think he could see in me that what I wanted was the complete opposite, and I'm still unsure if that mattered to him.”

“ I said, ‘You deserve to be happy, Patrick. So, you need to do what is going to make you the happiest.’ He leaned against the counter, smiled and said. ‘It's not like there's really anyone to miss me around here anyway.’”

“He obviously wanted you to say something.” Enzo was speaking truthfully.

“Thats a demonstrable fact.” Myra replied.

“Ah, yuck, just tell the story.” Enzo says lighting a cigarette.

“It's absurd you're still smoking.” Myra scolds him.

“It's absurd you haven't finished this story yet. Are you even still telling me the same story?” Enzo rants with an over dramatic performance.

“Like you aren't looking for a reason to park your ass here as long as you can.” She accuses him.

“Yea, but that doesn't mean I want to sit here listening to this story.” He easily admits his intent to spend time with her, and for Myra, it is too late for that kind of nonsense.

“I said to Patrick, ‘Oliver will miss your blue dinosaur cookies.’ A superior smile stole the rest of his face while he turned his head to the side a bit and blushed. I couldn’t resist him any longer. I put my arms around him, held him tight. I needed to touch him, and he let me. He put his arms around me and met my embrace with the same evocation. I touched his face and he stood still, smiling, looking at me. I think now, that I might have been able to kiss him. I should have kissed him. We let go, and I pulled a business card out of my purse. I wrote my cell phone number on the back, and told him to call me, before he leaves, or if he stays. The smile on his face turned rapidly. ‘Myra. I can't call you.’ “

“I replied with aggravation. ‘You mean you wont call. Why can't you just let it go?’”

“ ‘Myra, I cant call, because I let it go.’ When he said that I felt sick to my stomach and I could feel my sinuses starting to tingle with the labor of tears but I fought them back and said, ‘So then, I guess this is goodbye.’ “

“ ‘Again.’ He said, standing there, holding my card. I wanted to say I was sorry, but I walked away instead. You see there was one thing I could always count on with Patrick.”

“Oh yea, what's that?” Enzo asks in a tiresome tone.

“That he will tell me the truth. You know he is the only honest man I've ever really known? I grew up in a house full of liars. I surrounded myself with fakes and fashion puppets. I work in a church full of the very worst kind of hypocrites, but my Patrick, only tells the truth. He doesn't know how rare he is. He would rather upset me, then let a lie live on in my mind. Do you have any idea how extraordinary it is to find a veritable human being?” Myra speaks with somber admiration.

Enzo just looks at her blankly, knowing himself to be a career liar. He knows its best to stay mute to that question. “Even the good people I know, they lie when they need to, but not Patrick, he just cannot lie.”

Enzo decides this an opportune time to play to Myra’s fleeting vanity. “He still blew you off, but ’cuz it was to your face, he’s a good guy? He's not any better than you.”

Myra answers back immediately, unmoved by Enzo’s clumsy attempt at kindness, “Yes he is. He's better than both of us, and you know it.”

“I left LekkerBakery and Patrick knew I would never come back. I went home, and I cried my eyes out, until I had to pick up Oliver and Amanda from school. The week went by at a snail's pace and Sunday rolled around. Then another one, and so on for about a month. Each Sunday, I stayed in the car and the kids went in and got their treats, until that last Sunday when Amanda decided she wanted a cupcake and the money I had given them wouldn't cover it. Oliver ran outside, to the driver’s side window, and knocked. I put down the window and he said, ‘Mama, Amanda got a cupcake and it came to more money.’ I opened my wallet, it was barren of cash. I knew I would have to go in and use a card. Leave it to Amanda to put me in that position, but that's what I get for trusting two pre teens in a bakery. I got out of the car, opened that heavy glass door and walked in. There was no sign of Patrick.”

“I walked to the counter, opened my wallet and apologised to the woman for taking up her time. She was unbothered as she spoke. ‘Its fine. Not a big deal at all, I had to get the cookie out from the back anyway.’ I was confused. It was late in the morning, cookies are all usually out long before then, so I asked, Oh no, selling faster than you can bring them out?”

“The woman indulged in workplace appropriate laughter and said to me, ‘No. I had to get that dinosaur cookie out of the back. We stopped making the dinosaur cookies a couple months ago. Patrick made one special every Sunday for Oliver, and when he decided to move to France three weeks ago, he left strict instructions to make sure that we had a blue dinosaur cookie for Oliver, every Sunday, as long as he wanted it. So the past few weeks we make it, keep it in the back until he comes in.’”

The tears in Myra’s eyes settle in her deep circles while Enzo listens on, unmoved. This is not the Myra he knows. She never cries for him. He can’t understand why his hurting her didn’t bring tears, but Patrick not hurting her did. Enzo still conducts his emotions like a teenage boy. Myra finds it pathetic and a chore to deal with. She is compelled to finish this story.

“I looked at Oliver and said, ‘They do that for you?’ I had to say something, anything to avoid the frog that was sitting in my throat. Oliver hesitated admitting it, but he did. ‘Yes, Mama. He said goodbye to me and Amanda the Sunday before he left. I forgot to tell you, that he told me to say goodbye to you.’ ”

“ ’ Amanda chimed in, chocolate cupcake and frosting in her mouth and on her hands. ’Actually what he said was, “Tell your mom I said goodbye, again.” My face must have been confessing what I was trying to hide because Oliver said, ‘Mama I'm sorry I forgot.’ I put my hand on his face, and said, ‘Its ok sweetheart.’ “

“I paid for the cookies, thanked the counter woman, motioned for the kids to run in front of me, and left the bakery. Pulling out of the parking lot, Oliver slipped his cookie out of the white, waxy bag. He took an enthusiastic bite. His lips already dyed bright blue, he took two more quick but smaller bites. I wanted to go home, lay on the couch and feel bad for myself. But you can't do that when you have kids. You have to just suck it up, be a grown up and go about your day. Oliver put about half the cookie back in the bag. I asked, ‘Not hungry this morning?’ ”

“He hesitated a bit, looking out the window and then answered; ‘It's not that. I don't think I want to go there on Sunday anymore, Mama.’

“I asked, ‘Why?’ He said, ‘Because the cookies aren't as good as when your friend made them.’ ”

“What about you, Amanda? Will you miss the Sunday bakery stop?” I asked.

“And with a very Amanda reply she said, ‘I don't care. As long as we can at least get a donut instead.’ “

“Oliver agreed, ‘Yes Mama, lets just get donuts instead nextime.’ ”

“I concurred, ‘Ok, next time we’ll grab some donuts or maybe we’ll just hit a diner, get a real breakfast?’

Both kids shouted with a “Yes!” That's what's great about kids, they are cool with going with the flow and that made it easy to leave the bakery behind from that day.”

“Ok, so, that's it?” Enzo is happy the story’s over, but he remains confused.

“Yes, that's it.” Myra is aggravated.

“What the hell was that about? I still don't know why you take his word as law, but you wont believe me when I tell you I didn't call the IRS on you?” Enzo’s tone is meant to make Myra feel stupid. It didn’t.

“You don't get it? You really don't get it?” Myra is more perturbed than disappointed. Every year that goes by it becomes increasingly more humiliating that Enzo is the father of her child.

She asks, “So the fact he showed selfless, unnecessary kindness to your son reveals nothing for you? Patrick knew how important it was for a child like Oliver to be remembered, even though he is the son of a woman he wants to forget. You can understand how an action like that can define a person, right?”

Enzo’s face distorted like a barfly shut off after 3 drinks. “Why? Because he baked some fucking cookies? And then he told the other bakers to bake some fucking cookies? That makes you think he's a better guy than me? You're so stupid sometimes, Myra. You think he's this great guy because he baked cookies.” Enzo’s ignorant insult is malicious and his drawl slows with alcohol. Myra knows it's time for him to leave.

“That's right, Enzo. You have zero comprehension because you function by memorization without the benefit of humanity. The very thing that keeps you from being able to understand that story, is why you are a shit father and a one dimensional human being. I'll break it down for you. He's kind, even when there's no reason to be. He made a little boy happy, just to make him happy. He’s above all the bullshit. Patrick is a better person because he simply is a better person.” She said matter of factly.

Enzo stands up. “So, I'll be going? Or, I can stay?”

Myra, disgusted and finished says, “No Enzo, you can leave.”

He took his faded, denim jacket with an attached sweatshirt hood from the back of the chair and he put it on as he turns and walks to the door. His back is to Myra and he opens the door. She remains seated on the couch, looking at her email on her phone. Without turning around, Enzo speaks. “My kids hate me. You hate me. I don't know what I do that makes everyone feel that way. Your story makes no sense to me why you trust him, and I'm leaving now, when all I want to hear is you ask me to stay.” He looks back with hope that his defeatist monologue will somehow make Myra pity him enough to ask him to close the door and stay.

“Goodbye, Enzo.” She said still looking at her phone.

“Im sorry, Myra.” Enzo said still waiting for her to look at him.

She looks up from her phone. “That's the point entirely Enzo. You just keep having to say your sorry because you continue to do things to be sorry for. The only thing that changes about you is your address. You haven’t made any attempt in 15 years to come here to see Oliver. But the department of revenue thinks you should pay a pittance more a month in child support, so you find the time, and the money, to get on a plane and come here. Still you make no attempt to see our son. You come here knowing he’s out with his friends. You’re flight will leave and you won’t even think to call him before or after you leave. The worst part of that is, you don’t think any of that is wrong. You’re a bad person, Enzo. Thats why your kids hate you.”

“If he loved you, he would have stayed in town.” Enzo says in an attempt to sway her.

“If you loved me, you would have left without saying that.” She replies.

“I was being honest.” Enzo uses force in his voice.

“I'm not sure what for.” Myra said.

He saw in her eyes the second she figured it out. She grinned at the indication that had eluded her up until that moment. “Oh. I can’t believe It's escaped me until now. You had to take it away from me. Because it made me happy?” She asks, honestly.

“Because he broke your heart.” He replies with his insincere chivalry.

“Because he broke my heart.” She repeats back to him with tempo sarcasm. “So your attempt to tarnish an imperfect yet gratifying memory is because you care?” She pauses. “You are without a doubt the biggest asshole I have ever known, in my entire life...and I work in a Catholic church, so believe me, that's saying a lot.”

“Because I care about you that makes me an asshole? You can be a bitch to me, sitting there, defending him, remembering him like he’s some great thing. He’s a short, red headed, freckle faced freak that broke your heart. I’m standing right here listening to you,” He said trying to convince her of how wrong she is about him.

Myra stands and walks to the kitchen to put the empty glasses in the sink. “Leave Enzo. Just please leave. Pretend one of your kids needs you. That ought to make you run for the door.” He follows her into the kitchen, walks up behind her and brings his arms around her waist, his hands locking on her stomach. He presses his chest against her back and she becomes agitated, feeling him press his pelvis against her lower back

“Come on, baby girl. Let daddy heal that broken heart.” He whispers in her ear, the smell of cigarettes and alcohol mixed with the rough stubble scratching against her face reminds her of when he wouldn’t ask.

She closes her eyes. “You can’t heal a heart you didn’t break.” She opens her eyes and unlinks his hands. Enzo knows she doesn’t want him.

“Myra, my plane leaves tomorrow. I just want to spend the night with you. It’s one night, but you’d rather spend it with a ghost.” He surprises Myra with uncharacteristic observation, and she expectedly reminds him who she is.

“The ghost of love is more real than you.”