The Night Pharmacist – Part 2: First Bread

The bakery was warm and golden and smelled of butter and warm yeast.

Pol stood in the doorway at six-ten, still in his green cardigan, blinking in the pale dawn light. The street behind him was waking: shutters clattering, a street sweeper's broom, a first tram rumbling by. Inside, the bakery glowed. Loaves lined the shelves, crisp and dark. A great oven roared in the back.

"You came," said Samir.

"I said I would."

"I wasn't sure."

"I'm very reliable. I'm a pharmacist."

Samir laughed. He was in his apron, floured to the elbows, with a smear of dough on his cheek. He led Pol through the shop to the back kitchen, where long trays of rolls steamed on racks. The warmth was enormous. A radio hummed. A cat slept on a flour sack.

"Taste," said Samir.

He tore a hot roll in half and handed it over. Pol bit. It was crisp and soft and faintly sweet, with a fragrance that reached somewhere deep. He closed his eyes.

"That," he said, "is the best thing I've eaten in six years."

"It's the oven."

"It's the baker."

Samir flushed under his beard. They sat on upturned crates in the back kitchen with a pot of coffee and a basket of rolls, watching the sun climb up the wall. Pol told him about the long nights, the people at the hatch, the odd comfort of being the one awake. Samir told him about his mother's recipes, the old stone oven in Beirut, the long road to this bakery.

"Can I ask you something?" said Pol.

"Yes."

"Do you have a cough?"

"No," said Samir, with a slow smile. "It's an excuse."

"I thought so."

"May I kiss you, Pol?"

"Yes," said Pol. "And if you say stop, you must give me a loaf every morning."

"I'd do that anyway."

Samir kissed him, warm and floury, a hand rising to cup Pol's cheek. Pol kissed him back with a slow, grateful sweetness, tasting of coffee and bread. The oven ticked. Sunlight poured through the little window onto the flour-dusted floor.

When they parted, both of them were smiling.

"Green?" asked Samir.

"Green," said Pol. "Very green."

The tin of cough sweets sits on the bakery shelf now, empty, with a handwritten label: For the night shift. No prescription needed.

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