Total pages in book: 36
Estimated words: 34065 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 170(@200wpm)___ 136(@250wpm)___ 114(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 34065 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 170(@200wpm)___ 136(@250wpm)___ 114(@300wpm)
That must be why I can’t let this Simone thing go.
I slow my steps, downing the last dregs of my night tea. I scan the street just in case I missed the bakery cart, just in case it’s not rounding a corner and I’m panicking over nothing. But no, there’s nothing but an idling air-sled at the far end of the street, by the Port Custodial office, and a few passersby on the walkways. I glance at Ruthie and Kazex as they walk ahead of me, hand in hand. He’s watching her as she talks, the most tender expression on his face, and my heart melts for them and their happiness.
And weirdly, I think of Simone again.
So I speak up. “Hey, guys? I think I’m going to bail out on today.”
They turn to look at me, Ruthie’s expression one of concern. “Are you all right?”
I gesture at the now-empty disposable cup in my hand. “Maybe a bit too much tea this morning. I’m going to head over to the general store and see if they have something like antacid and then head back to the ship to sleep. Will you be okay without me?”
“Of course. There’s not much for us to do until the construction is finished anyhow.” Ruthie nudges Kaz. “It’s not like they let us do the heavy lifting or use the power drills.”
“You’re delicate,” he protests. “Why would I make you strain yourself when I can do everything for you?”
She snorts.
“Really, I’m fine. I’m just dragging and I’m not going to be much use. I’ll head back to the ship.” I give them what I hope is a “sickly but not so sickly that I need constant tending” smile and wave.
They wave back and then head on to the cantina. I watch them go, noting that Kaz rubs her wrist with his thumb even as he holds her hand and how she instinctively leans in towards him. I’m happy for her and strangely envious. Normally I’m fine on my own. I don’t mind being alone, because it’s something I choose.
It’s when you don’t choose it and you need help that loneliness becomes miserable. I think of Simone again and turn towards the general store across the street.
Inside the store, it’s temperature-controlled, cool and inviting. The avian alien behind the counter squawks a greeting at me and cocks his head. I march to the counter, pulling out a few credits that I keep on me for emergencies. “Has Simone been in today?”
His feathers arch on the back of his neck and then he shakes his head. “Her order is waiting but she hasn’t come by to get it.”
“Her order?” I ask, curious. This might be even better than my initial thought of “buy medicine and bring it.”
The avian squawks again, tapping a screen on his data pad and then showing it to me. “She picks up baking supplies every day so she can bake after her cart sells out. Fresh butter. Milk. Flour. Honey. Raw meat for her animal. Every day. But yesterday’s order is still here and unpaid for.”
“Every day?” I echo. “She bakes all that every day?”
“Every day,” he agrees. “Hardest-working human I know.”
I feel another stab of guilt, because I’ve thrown this narrative in my head that Simone bakes terrible pastries because she doesn’t give a shit. I’ve seen what she puts out, though. She varies up her selection daily, with cookies and muffins in different flavors, and tiny pies and pancakes with fruits and nuts. It’s a lot of baking, and she sells from her cart until she runs out, rain or shine. She does work hard. She is just missing some piece of the puzzle to make it all click.
“I’ll pay for her order and take it to her,” I say. “And I want some noodles and fresh vegetables, too. Whatever would be good in a soup.”
A short time later, I have heavy bags full of flour and Simone’s baking supplies. I can’t carry it all, but I promise the shopkeeper that I’ll be back once I’ve dropped the first load off. I head to the boarding house and smile broadly at the woman at the front desk who’s busy perusing the most tattered copy of Outlander I’ve ever seen.
“I’m bringing Simone’s groceries to her,” I say, juggling the bags.
She barely looks up from her book. “Cool.”
“Right, thanks.” Glad I’m not a murderer or anything. Hefting the bags higher, I head down the hall, following the sound of coughing. It sounds raw and battered, her coughing, and I inwardly wince at how much her throat must be hurting.
I knock on the door, but there’s no answer. That’s not a surprise. She probably thinks it’s me again (and she’d be right). I test the doorknob, and it turns in my hand, the door cracking open.