“I can tell you need this bun more than I do. If you really want it,” he says, “we can make a trade.”
“A trade?” My pulse begins to race. His eye color is on the tip of my tongue.
“Yes. A good old-fashioned barter,” he says, looking entertained. He studies me with his color-I-can’t-quite-place eyes, unnerving me. There’s a soulful depth to them that draws me in, making me forget why I’m staring at him in the first place.
The man clears his throat, and I refocus. “Sure. You can have my Bo Lo Bao, and I’ll take your cocktail bun,” I offer. I make a move for my prize, but the man gently clutches my wrist with his tongs, guiding my arm back to my tray.
“Whoa, hold on! No deal. There’s still a pile of those. I could grab five of them right now if I wanted to. Therefore, your trade is worthless,” he says.
On the tray, he has two slices of Swiss rolls (one rainbow and one vanilla), a Chinese hot dog bun, two curry beef puffs, andmycocktail bun.
“You clearly have an agenda,” I say, “so what is it you want? Ham and cheese? They look extra delicious this morning.”
The man vocalizes his thinking with ahmmm.“The cocktail bun for your pork bun,” he finally offers.
I hesitate and look down at what was going to be my breakfast, fully knowing it’s the last pork bun. “Your cocktail bunandSwiss roll for my pork bun,” I say firmly, throwing in a curveball. “That’s my final offer.”
He glances over at the empty Swiss roll case and pauses before finally agreeing. “I normally have a ninety-two percent success rate with negotiations. This is hands down the worst deal I’ve ever made, but I’m impressed by your bargaining skills, so you’ve got yourself a deal.”
“And I want the vanilla one,” I add, studying him. He has a kind face, his quick-to-smile demeanor disarming me. On his upper right cheek is a small coffee-colored beauty mark.
“What’s the difference? I’m pretty sure the rainbow Swiss roll tastes like vanilla, too,” he says, poking the dessert with the silver utensil. “How do you know this one’s better?”
“It’s not that it’sbetter. I just have a particular preference for the golden one,” I say flatly, holding my tray out toward him.
“Whatever you want.” A dimpled smile spreads across his face. I barely manage to pull my gaze away from the deepening, shadowed spots. I bet those dimples have broken hearts before.
He places the cocktail bun on my tray and hesitantly grabs his Swiss roll with his tongs, looking pained to be parting with it. “Goodbye, new friend. It was nice almost enjoying you.” The man places the slice of Swiss roll onto my tray and, in the same smooth movement, grabs the pork bun.
“Enjoy that,” I murmur. I can’t help but smile.
“Nice doing business with you,” he says, snapping his tongs playfully like lobster claws.
A snorted laugh sneaks out. The man gives a slight wave before heading to the register. I grab a few more baked goods before paying, lingering a while so the man can leave and so my heart can stop fluttering.
When I push the door open, I realize I didn’t wait long enough. The man from the bakery loiters on the sidewalk, staring at his cellphone. The damn bells above the door jingle, betraying me by giving up my location.
Bakery Guy looks up at me. “You back for another barter?” he asks with a pleased look.
I lift the heavy bag of food. “I do have more leverage now.”
We both turn in the same direction.
“I’m not following you, but I have to go the same way,” I say with an awkward laugh.
The man’s hair is a lighter shade of brown than it looked in the bakery’s yellow fluorescent lights. I sneak a look at his eyes once more. Hazel. His eyes are hazel. In the sunshine, I see that there’s a fleck of gold around the pupils. He stretches to adjust his posture, his shoulders broadening and expanding his evergreen-colored polo, which looks soft from years of wear. He comes off as someone who wants to remain low-key but still appear put together.
“No problem,” he says, sliding his sunglasses on.
I walk at his pace but stay about six feet to the right.
“What brings you out here this early?” Bakery Guy asks, filling the silence.
“Picking up breakfast. I meant it when I said I was bringing food for my pó po’s birthday. You almost denied a ninety-year-old woman her favorite bun.”
The man’s eyes widen. “Yikes. She’s lucky to have a clever granddaughter to win it back.”
I grin to myself. “What about you?”
