[2] Bathrobe, Biscotti, & Bike

Truman watched from the kitchen window as Fiona walked to the bus stop carrying her billboard briefcase which included the lunch he’d made for her.

He hummed along with Mozart as he rinsed the breadboard, did a little tai chi as he put away the bread, the jelly, and the extra chunky peanut butter.

Something caught his eye.

He bent down to the checkered linoleum and peered closely. It was the chocolate-dipped biscotti, individually wrapped, that he’d tucked into her bag as a surprise. It must’ve fallen out when she re-packed her billboard briefcase.

He picked it up and brought it close to his nose. Such a perfect treat. “Your safety,” he said, feeling ravenous, “cannot be guaranteed.”

Truman ran outside, forgetting he was still in his robe, but instantly aware he was barefoot by the cold slab of concrete. Fiona’s bus pulled away. He hopped on the bike of his 8-year-old neighbor Sam and began pedaling. The bus had one more stop before the freeway. With a bit of good fortune—perhaps a commuter with inexact change—he just might catch it.

For he was no ordinary stay-at-home retired house-spouse in a robe, Kleenex in his pockets—he was Bathrobe Man with a job to do. Gripping the individually wrapped biscotti firmly between his teeth, Truman held on to the handlebars with both hands and pedaled hard, bathrobe belt blowing in the wind behind him.

—Published previously in Blue Fifth Review (Fall Quarterly 2017, 17.12); appears here with author’s permission.