Tous Les Jours.
I waited by the glass entrance for my sister and brother-in-law to make their scrumptious selections. A handicapped mother and her daughter tried to inch their way in. I went to hold the tall door open.
With the coming and going, regulars who went directly to their favorite, indecisive roamers trying to make up their mind, the mother knew her electric wheelchair would cause great distress in the body-filled aisles. She parked to my left as we waited together at the glass entrance.
“We come all the way from Brooklyn just for this,” the mother introduces herself.
“Do you?! It’s our first time here,” I reply with my excited tourist voice.
“It’s worth it,” she says. I assume it’s quite a trip.
“What do you usually get when you come?” I ask to get her favorites.
“The Fruit Pastry.” She motions the daughter to bring over her wooden tray to show me. I take a good look to make sure to get a Fruit Pastry next time (which I do–it. is. yum.) My sister and brother-in-law are ready with their bag of goodies. I say thanks and farewell to the mother.
We didn’t exchange names. Our interaction lasted less than five minutes. I think of her today.