These cookies are in-store baked for ‘extra freshness’.

‘I don't want to teach you to suck eggs,’

I say ‘but from where I stand (and I am standing pouring out the tea) ‘Mrs. M,

we share the same enigmatic bone don't we?’

and in my altered state of alteredness

I believe it sincerely. ‘I beg to differ …’

she raises a finger, and then drifts off to search

for that alluring word (and returns without it).

‘As it happens, I have never lost anything

the same way twice, but the thing about a cave

is its caveness.’ This sounds to me like a morally

sound proposition and I nod sagely.

‘I remember,’ she says (not to me but more

to herself) ‘we never did finish that game of solitaire.

I just don't know why we don't bake any more.’

She places her hands on the table. They resemble

upturned autumn leaves. ‘I was sure of his hands

once, the pressure of his hands.’ She's looking

at her old pair of hands, a bit of her shadow dribbles

out of her. I finger the cellophane. ‘I'll open them shall I?’