Wednesday, November 21, 2007


From the journals:

11-9-07 (sort of)

The dull red glow of my ancient alarm clock threatens to say 1 am. Only a few hours until I open up the bakery. It isn't my bakery. It belongs to a gentleman named Lewis. I glimpsed him once, but we were not formally introduced. I doubt we could pick each other out of a police lineup.

Opening the bakery requires no baking on my part. The complex chemical reactions that turn ground wheat and live yeast into proud golden loaves of bread has taken place while I've slept. I pull out rows and rows of pastries and muffins on segregated metal pans and arrange them in a manner that a laminated piece of paper assures me is aesthetically pleasing.

I work with a girl named Jamie. I meant to speak of only Jamie.

Her voice and manner, while wholly her own, stir in me memories of Kendall. I believe Kendall no longer cares for me.

Jamie's voice on the phone sounds like Kendall's. It is a wool blanket, rough and warm. Her uneven tones strike more than my ears. A long way away, there is a time and place where I have never caused Kendall pain. Wherever that place is, that distant Guillermo hears Kendall's voice tries to call out across the possibilities that have set like concrete.

That distant Guillermo has injured hands from scrabbling against the dual barrier of time and regret.

Perhaps this, too, shall pass. I hope it is soon. Memory is vulnerable and I wish to keep some untainted. I have need of them yet.


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