When Bluebirds Fly | ✔

Part One : Chapter Three

I dragged myself to work after fixing ham sandwiches for both my dad and I. When I arrived at Bailey's Nuts, I was not astonished to find Isaac already donning the red apron and cap, his wild hair desperately trying to free itself. I stepped in as tacitly as I could, yet I heard his cheerful greeting, "Hey."

I ignored him, my attention solely on the colourful doughnuts in front of me.

From the corner of my eyes, I could see his out-stretched hand grasping my apron and cap. "You forgot these."

I didn't respond, not wanting our hands to touch and eventually, he placed it on the counter. I didn't hear an irritated sigh or anything close to whining. From what I had observed all my childhood with those innumerable bruises I had generously given him, this boy had a high level of tolerance.

I proceeded to tie my apron and accidentally, my elbow grazed against what felt like his stomach. I hastily shuffled sideways, hating the curious way in which he was almost studying me. I placed the cap on my head and yanked the tip downwards, hiding my face the best I could.

"I can see you," he said playfully and I angrily pulled my cap further down. What the frack. "I can still see you."

I took a sharp breath and brushed past him to the pantry, my eyes glued to the chess tiled floor.

"Hey, good afternoon!" Lola and Tony greeted in unison, their aprons dirty with icing and mostly flour.

"Was there a flour storm in here?" I remarked and they tittered in mirth, thinking that I was jesting. "No seriously, how will customers want to buy anything from you with those filthy aprons on?"

Their joyous moment ceased as Lola sighed dramatically, acting half her age. "Anyone would want to buy these babies."

She would never stop calling doughnuts babies, I mentally noted.

"That statement is pretty disgusting if you take it literally," I pointed and they burst out giggling again as if I was an overrated comic making inane comments. I snapped, "What?"

Lola and Tony exchanged a look before they broke into a fresh fit of laughter. Again.

Too exhausted to deal with those two fools, I ambled back to the front of the store.

The minute I stepped out of the door, Isaac's eyes flashed to me and I hastily lowered my head. I loathed my submissive, coward like reaction, but eye-contact was too risky. Thankfully, a lady with questionable taste in food (who comes in a doughnut shop demanding for a turkey leg?) ordered a Dr Pepper, but we only sold Coke, it's apparently less evil version- Diet Coke and it's competitor Fanta. Isaac became busy handling her exaggerated threats of suing Bailey's Nuts while I smartly stayed out of it, attending to the less quarrelsome customers.

"That was tough," Isaac mumbled beside me after the hot-headed lady left. "She went all crazy on me."

Isaac with his impressive level of tolerance patiently listened to her tantrums till she got drained of her energy, then smugly pushed a can of Coke in her hand and sent her home.

"So . . . Which is your favourite baby?" he suddenly asked, his tone light and I had to oppress my urge to look at him in bewilderment. I realized lamentably, he too had caught Lola's disease of calling these round-shaped cakes, babies. "I like the ones with whipped cream on top."

For a second, I actually believed that he forgot the history we shared. That he didn't remember me, Mariana, Ana. His Ana.

But how could he not as he found the need to complacently mention how we loved anything with whipped cream on top. I was transported back to when were kids and to keep us from screaming on top of our lungs, our mothers used to guiltily put a dollop of whipped cream on our tiny hands. Then we spent the rest of the time soundlessly licking it, savouring each second of the sweetness melting on our tongues.