Brege

The Baker

“You’re beautiful and I want to bake you a pie.” The well-dressed man at the corner of the bar doesn’t blink.
“Thank you.”
“You look like a girl from high school—she never spoke to me. I would stare at her tiny ears, so cute I wanted to bite them.”
“I’m sorry. High school was rough for everyone. No boys ever spoke to me.” My voice quivers from intuition. My mouth goes dry. “So you like to bake? Me too. Apple is my favorite.”
The cook has left. The loud storm has convinced the other patrons to head home early. It’s 4 a.m. The phone rings.
“Answer the phone Jenny. Now.”
“My name is Brege.”
“Don’t talk to me like that Jenny.”
He is calm. He takes a sip of his scotch neat. His eyes locked on mine. I pick up the receiver. My hand trembles.
“Be smart Jenny. I can tell you’re very smart.”
“Everything is fine… no, there isn’t anyone here… yes, the cook left early.”
I see a silver flicker in his tweed pocket dancing from the fluorescent lighting.
“You’re so beautiful Jenny. I think I’ll bake you into a pie—tomorrow.”
He walks out the door.