Mustang Bagel

Even at my favorite coffeeshop downtown, Redford

is a hard man to feed. This morning, he picks

at his Grilled Asiago Mastercrust with a slow, disdainful frown.

Could they spare the fromage on this so-called "treat?"

He takes a sip of hazelnut coffee, then winces delicately

into the neck of his sweater vest. I bite powerfully

through my Cinnamon Frenchroll: Well, if you really don't think

you got enough—"fromage"—you should just go back up there

& tell the girl. I start on Redford's coffee while he looks glumly

at the metal napkin dispenser. Just then, the electric chime

above the door sounds. A man sweeps in & rests

his guitar case on one of the slim café chairs.

His dark hair is arranged in a series of perpetually

break wavefronts. A small muscle jumps in his jaw

as he orders a Cinnamon Frenchroll, toasted, with cream cheese.

I lean foward, jabbing Redford with my plastic coffee wand.

Check out that guy over there I say. Intense.

Redford shrugs. I think he's Irish I say, watching the man bite

into his bagel. The instrument case hovers on the chair edge.

He could have a guitar in there, or else—a sword from the Crusades.

I press my tongue into the square-shaped hole in the lid

of my coffee cup. Listen Redford says. If we're going to be together

you have to take this. He pushes a small velvet box across the table.

What are you doing? I ask, but Redford doesn't answer.

He just looks down at the table, one hand pressed

to each of his temples. In the box is a square of chocolate

like the top of a signet ring, smooth, but edged

in something bright. It's smoked salt from Wales, Redford says.

Handmade in limited quantities. I turn the little box

in my hands. The salt sparkles like an arctic church.

I have to blink against it all.

Source: Fort Red Border (Sarabande Books, 2009)