Tuesday
The warm light from the bakery spilled onto the black cobblestones, shiny with the rain that had fallen on and off throughout the night. Without quite realizing it, Stella’s ears reached for the sound of mixing, or the little tinny transistor radio Antonio sometimes had playing.
Nothing.
Stella held the box of strufoli against her chest and called out, “Antonio?”
She winced at the sound of her voice ringing in the quiet space. Why was it so quiet? Bakery sounds routinely overflowed into the streets. There were times she heard the flow of banter and teasing rising above the sound of banging pans from as far away as the upper ring road.
Now? All she heard was a hush, like an intake of breath.
For an instant, she thought maybe he was late or not coming, except . . . the lights.
