Second Fate

1

I will die,

I thought with an earnestness which seemed misplaced between cinnamon rolls and sweet bread.

I will die if something interesting doesn't happen soon.

The clacking sound of my fingernails on the bakery's counter mixed with the street noises streaming into the shop through a half-open window. Without a single customer-shaped reason to hide my boredom, I let my gaze wander through the 20 sunny square meters clad with cheap laminate flooring and musty flower tapestry. This was the kingdom which I ruled over on weekdays between six in the morning until whenever my colleague could be bothered to show up and relieve me.

There was nothing unusual about a lack of customers on a late Monday morning, but I had forgotten to charge my phone overnight. Now my short nails were painted, the counter had been cleaned, and there was nothing better to do than let my daydreams take over.

I was already imagining the arrival of a good-looking young man who would order two bagels and some sweets. He'd explain that he was preparing brunch for his sister, but my gaze would be preoccupied by a set of two suspiciously sharp fangs behind his upper lip.

Curious glances would be exchanged, and, on the leave, he'd hand me a paper with his number.

No, no, I corrected myself angrily, no note. He's not a grade schooler.

Mentally, I rewound the scenario up to the point where he paid for his purchase and this time, I let him leave with a mysterious smile.

--- New scene, change of scenery.

Now I was standing in a dark alleyway, a flickering streetlamp above me, ice cold rain hitting my burning cheeks. Or did I feel tears? The only thing certain was me being chased, in grave danger, but I felt my salvation close by. One more turn and there he was again, the man with the bagels.

A chance meeting was forging an unbreakable bond of fate between us.

As the bell above the shop door chimed, I straightened like a rod. My pulse spiked in expectation when my eyes found the customer. A good-looking men in his early 30s had entered, fine features beneath thick, auburn hair.

Putting on a professional smile I sold him half a loaf of bread, for which he thanked me. He stayed a second, making small talk about work and the weather. Perhaps he'd noticed my interest.

When he left the store a couple of minutes later, he didn't leave a note or ask for my number – but I caught myself feeling relieved.

It wasn't him either, I decided, while I was wiping down the counter for the twentieth time today. Something had been wrong about him, even though I couldn't put it into words. The simple thought of asking for his number had put me into a bad mood.

The rest of the day passed with excruciating slowness, while I debated the stranger's faults. Had his hair been a little too straight, his shirt too well-ironed? I was running in circles and ended up at the same conclusion each and every time. He'd been perfect for a first impression.

It's you, I told myself with a bitter smile. You're the problem, Nina.

Shortly after the sun began its descent, the bell above the door rang a second time and I could finally slip out of my apron. With a murmured greeting and a tired smile, I left my colleague behind to hurry home.

*

The building, in which I had made myself a modest home, was in worse shape than the patients of the senior residency down the street. Flaky paint and dirt of one or two millennia covered the outer walls while the inside of the building was in relation kept almost clean and tidy. The landlord was struggling to keep the water out of the walls by limited financial means and half of the building's residents were actively working against him.