Lunar Love (3)

“My tongs were on that bun before you ripped it out of my cold metal grip,” I casually explain. I eye up the cocktail bun, the sides still looking soft from recently being pulled apart. Across the surface of the bun, which is baked to golden perfection, are two white lines of sweet cream.

“That’s quite the dramatic retelling of what just happened. I’d love to hear your version of what happens when I keep the bun.” The man smiles, his cheeks pushing crinkled lines up around his delighted eyes.

I gesture with my tongs to signify my personal space. “I was clearly here before you.”

The man raises both eyebrows. “If you move too slowly, you miss out. What’s that saying? If you’re browsing for fun, you don’t get the bun.”

“I think it actually goes: When you cut me off, things are going to get rough,” I retort, slightly amused.

“Mmm, nope,” he says, “haven’t heard of that one.”

“You see, it’s my pó po’s birthday, and if I don’t get her that cocktail bun, well, I’ll be a disappointment to her. You wouldn’t want that for me, right?” I ask sweetly. I look into the light shading of his deep-set eyes, and for a moment, I’m at a loss for what color they are.

“How do you know that I’m not taking this bun to my pó po?” the man asks. His use of the Chinese term for maternal grandmother surprises me.

“You have a pó po who also happens to be obsessed with cocktail buns?” I ask suspiciously.

“Actually, my pó po prefers egg tarts. She’s got a thing for puff pastry and butter,” he replies, glancing over at the cases next to us. “But that’s beside the point.”

Before I can make my rebuttal, a young boy pushes past me to snatch the last Swiss roll out of the case. “Great, there goes the last one!” I shout, looking at the vacant platter and throwing my hand up to overemphasize my distress. Maybe this approach will work.

“I can tell you need this bun more than I do. If you really want it,” he says, “we can make a trade.”

“A trade?” My pulse begins to race. His eye color is on the tip of my tongue.

“Yes. A good old-fashioned barter,” he says, looking entertained. He studies me with his color-I-can’t-quite-place eyes, unnerving me. There’s a soulful depth to them that draws me in, making me forget why I’m staring at him in the first place.

The man clears his throat, and I refocus. “Sure. You can have my Bo Lo Bao, and I’ll take your cocktail bun,” I offer. I make a move for my prize, but the man gently clutches my wrist with his tongs, guiding my arm back to my tray.

“Whoa, hold on! No deal. There’s still a pile of those. I could grab five of them right now if I wanted to. Therefore, your trade is worthless,” he says.

On the tray, he has two slices of Swiss rolls (one rainbow and one vanilla), a Chinese hot dog bun, two curry beef puffs, and my cocktail bun.

“You clearly have an agenda,” I say, “so what is it you want? Ham and cheese? They look extra delicious this morning.”

The man vocalizes his thinking with a hmmm. “The cocktail bun for your pork bun,” he finally offers.

I hesitate and look down at what was going to be my breakfast, fully knowing it’s the last pork bun. “Your cocktail bun and Swiss roll for my pork bun,” I say firmly, throwing in a curveball. “That’s my final offer.”

He glances over at the empty Swiss roll case and pauses before finally agreeing. “I normally have a ninety-two percent success rate with negotiations. This is hands down the worst deal I’ve ever made, but I’m impressed by your bargaining skills, so you’ve got yourself a deal.”

“And I want the vanilla one,” I add, studying him. He has a kind face, his quick-to-smile demeanor disarming me. On his upper right cheek is a small coffee-colored beauty mark.

“What’s the difference? I’m pretty sure the rainbow Swiss roll tastes like vanilla, too,” he says, poking the dessert with the silver utensil. “How do you know this one’s better?”

“It’s not that it’s better. I just have a particular preference for the golden one,” I say flatly, holding my tray out toward him.

“Whatever you want.” A dimpled smile spreads across his face. I barely manage to pull my gaze away from the deepening, shadowed spots. I bet those dimples have broken hearts before.

He places the cocktail bun on my tray and hesitantly grabs his Swiss roll with his tongs, looking pained to be parting with it. “Goodbye, new friend. It was nice almost enjoying you.” The man places the slice of Swiss roll onto my tray and, in the same smooth movement, grabs the pork bun.

“Enjoy that,” I murmur. I can’t help but smile.

“Nice doing business with you,” he says, snapping his tongs playfully like lobster claws.

A snorted laugh sneaks out. The man gives a slight wave before heading to the register. I grab a few more baked goods before paying, lingering a while so the man can leave and so my heart can stop fluttering.

When I push the door open, I realize I didn’t wait long enough. The man from the bakery loiters on the sidewalk, staring at his cellphone. The damn bells above the door jingle, betraying me by giving up my location.

Bakery Guy looks up at me. “You back for another barter?” he asks with a pleased look.