Morning Run in Copenhagen – Part 2: Coffee Before Seven

By the second week, Anders had stopped looking at his watch. Bastian noticed it on the Monday, as they ran the canal path in the grey dawn, the first pale light turning the water to pewter. Anders was too busy talking about his grandfather's boat to check the time at all.

He came to the bakery after every run now, sat at the corner table by the window, and ordered coffee black and strong, exactly the way Bastian had guessed he would. Bastian always saved him the last cinnamon bun, wrapped in brown paper, and set it on the counter without a word.

"You're spoiling me," said Anders, on the Thursday.

"You're running too far," said Bastian, wiping the counter. "You need the sugar."

"I need you to stop pretending you didn't save it on purpose."

Bastian laughed, and turned away to hide his face.

The bakery was small and warm, with a bell over the door and shelves full of rye loaves and sweet pastries glazed with apricot. In the mornings it filled up with office workers in good coats, students with laptops, and old women who came in for their weekly bread and stayed for a gossip. Anders fit in easily, as if he had always been part of the room.

"What's the best thing you bake?" he asked, on the Friday.

"The kanelsnegl," said Bastian at once. "Cinnamon snails. My grandmother's recipe. Too much butter, too much sugar, and a secret ingredient I'm not telling you."

"Is it love?"

"It's cardamom," said Bastian. "Don't be ridiculous."

Anders grinned. Then his face grew serious, and he looked down at the cup in his hands.

"Can I ask you something?" he said.

"Yes."

"Why did you start running? Really? Before you had the bakery, before the sunrise over the water."

Bastian leaned against the counter, cloth in hand, and thought about it.

"Because I'd been awake for every night of my twenties, working in other people's kitchens, trying to be good enough for someone who never noticed," he said. "And running was the only thing that made me feel like I was going somewhere on purpose."

Anders nodded slowly. "I started because my marriage ended," he said quietly. "Three years ago. My wife said I was always thinking about the next bridge, and never about the person beside me. She was right. So I started running, to learn how to stop."

"Did it work?"

"Not until I came to this bakery," said Anders, and looked up at him, steady and warm. "I think it's the first place in years I've wanted to stay."

Bastian set down the cloth. His chest was tight, and his face was hot.

"Can I ask you something else?" he said.

"Yes."

"Would you like to walk along the harbour with me this Sunday, without running, without watches, with no plan at all? Just the water and the bread and a bit of sun, if it comes."

Anders's smile was slow and delighted. "Yes," he said. "But I'm bringing the coffee. You always make it too weak."

"Deal," said Bastian. "Can I kiss you now? Here, before the next customer walks in and starts asking for their rye loaf?"

"Yes," said Anders. "And if I say stop, I'll go and buy the last cinnamon bun, and we'll pretend it was never warm."

Bastian leaned across the counter and kissed him, slowly, his hand resting on Anders's shoulder, the warm smell of cardamom and coffee between them. Anders's fingers curled gently into the front of his apron, steady and sure. Outside, the first tram rang its bell, and the harbour glittered in the sun.

When they parted, both of them were smiling.

"Green?" asked Bastian softly.

"Green," said Anders. "Very green. Now give me the bun, and I'll go and be terrible at running for another week."

"You'll be terrible at running for ever," said Bastian, and handed him the brown paper parcel, warm from the oven.