What the Bread Was For

The meeting came on a cool Saturday, near the park where Marlowe had once accepted a foam plate of soup.

A gentle drizzle fell.

Desmond waited by the crosswalk with a closed umbrella, and when the light changed he saw Marlowe crossing toward him beside a tall, self-possessed girl in a bright yellow raincoat — her mother’s eyes, her mother’s straight posture, and the same dimple in her cheek.

He had not seen Posy up close in seven years.

He had watched her from trucks and from behind trees, a small distant figure skipping beside her mother, and he had built her in his mind from those glimpses.

But nothing had prepared him for her walking toward him across a crosswalk, close enough to see her face, close enough to see how much of him was in it and how much of Marlowe, close enough to see that she was studying him with the same directness her mother had.