Arc went into the city to soothe a woman’s hands. Her name was Muir. She entered the bakery wearing a scarf and sunglasses one afternoon and pointed to a pastry filled with cream, behind the glass. Arc began to fetch the pastry, and just when he had the cellophane paper firmly gripped on the item Muir said; Not that one, that one. And she pointed again, this time to a croissant clearly on a different tray from the cream-filled pastry. Her hand had a long pointer finger, which she smudged on the glass casing, emphasizing the croissant. But when Arc retrieved it, Muir said, No, no, that’s not what I meant at all. Finally, she bought a glazed doughnut and a cup of cranberry-flavored hot tea which she consumed with a look of disdain standing in the shop and gazing out the window at the autumn decorations lining the street.

This became routine. Muir wanted a glazed doughnut every other day, and Arc was there to provide it. If Arc went for the doughnut first, Muir would bite her lip, considering, and say, No, I don’t think so, and she’d point to an everything bagel that she didn’t want and in time return to the glazed doughnut. Sometimes she drank flavored coffee, differently flavored by her whim.

Arc didn’t mind the trouble. He found her faux-indecision alluring. It seemed like she didn’t know what she wanted when really she just needed the time to listen to her desires. He wanted to believe love worked like this. He compared himself to the glazed doughnut and thought, at closing as he mopped,I am like the glazed doughnut. Muir probably dates a lot. I’m not her type, certainly. I’m not handsome. I don’t have a good head of hair. But that’s the stuff on the outside. Inside, I’m as good as anyone. She chooses the doughnut in the end. I can fix my glaze.

Photo: Tavallai

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