It didn't matter that he was so much older. It didn't matter that he looked as if he had been pieced together from assorted domestic items (ears like teapot handles, nose like a cup hook, teeth like discoloured piano keys). Martin was the first person who had ever been kind to her. She began to think that maybe this was what Love could be.
Every lunchtime he would ride his black bicycle over to the library (where she worked as a horn-rimmed, hair-bunned librarian) to bring her a special treat from the bakery for dessert:
Monday: custard bun
Tuesday: vanilla donut dusted with cinnamon
Wednesday: batch of star-shaped coconut cookies sprinkled with little coloured dots
Thursday: melt-in-your-mouth chocolate brownie
Friday: cheese twists and lemon-filled drops
After work, he would ride back to the library to meet her. He would push his bicycle along beside them as he walked her home. Three miles is far to trek with arthritic knees, but she was worth the pain.
At the time she lived alone in a small apartment on the second floor of an unpainted four-storey building in a rough neighbourhood, Martin called it. Young men loitered by the corner, streetlights did
not work, garbage stank to high heavens and rats the size of puppies frequently ran across the road. Eitherthat, or they sat heavily on the steps, like pets waiting for their owners.
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