The Midnight Bakery – Part 2: First Light

It began with eleven minutes, and it grew.

Every night, at four, they stood together outside the back door with a bun and a cup of coffee, looking at the sky. Sometimes it was black and starry. Sometimes it was grey and wet. On clear nights they could see the great sweep of the Milky Way over the rooftops.

Noor talked about her mother's village in Morocco, the spice market, the sea. Signe talked about her grandmother's recipe book, the day she'd walked out of an office, the sourdough starter she'd named Hanne. They shared an umbrella. They shared a bench. They shared a sleeve.

On the last night of November, Noor's van arrived at three, and she didn't leave.

"Is the route done?"

"It's done."

"Shouldn't you go?"

"I have the morning off." She took off her hi-vis jacket. "Can I stay?"

Signe's chest tightened. She pulled out the last tray of the night, cardamom buns, golden and swirling, and set it on the table between them. She poured two coffees. They sat on upturned crates in the warm back kitchen, the ovens glowing, the street dark outside.

At six, the first pale light slid across the cobbles. A bird began to sing in the courtyard tree. The bakery windows turned from black to blue.

"Look," whispered Noor.

"I always watch it."

"Alone."

"Not any more."

"Can I ask you something?" said Noor.

"Yes."

"May I kiss you? In the first light?"

"Yes," said Signe. "And if you say stop, you must help me shape four hundred rolls."

"I'd do it for free."

"I know."

Noor kissed her, soft and bready-warm, a hand rising to Signe's flour-dusted cheek. Signe kissed her back, slow and sure, tasting of cardamom and coffee. The dawn filled the window. A first customer rang the bell on the front door.

When they parted, both of them were smiling.

"Green?" asked Noor.

"Green," said Signe. "Very green."

Noor still delivers at three. She stays till six. The co-op has stopped asking.

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