Bagel

Three friends are in town early morning. In a few hours two of them are heading home, flying off in separate directions, while the other drives along the country roads back to work. He’s brought his out-of-town friends to his favorite bagel place. Tucked away in a warehouse district, the joint’s made up of a long counter, a couple of booths and a picnic table. Big ovens line the back wall. The owners are from Montreal, he tells them. After ordering bagels with cream cheese, the men sit together at a table, talk returning to the last few shared days at the retreat center—of all the projects picked up, discussed, brought forward in small steps. Someone looks at a watch. Almost time to go. All of a sudden a bagel appears—its unexpected arrival signaled by a waft of doughy bread—lofted between the three friends on the end of a ridiculously long oven paddle. It floats there between them a moment then, with a flick of the baker’s wrist, slides off into a basket. “Try this one,” he barks from across the counter, smiling broadly. It’s covered in dark seeds. One of the men tears the bagel into thirds and passes the steaming bread around to the others. They step out into the misty morning, each happy, for the moment satisfied and full, ready for what the next portion of the day will bring.