After that, I'd catch glimpses of him around the neighborhood from time to time.
He'd ride past in his delivery jacket, moving fast on his bike, gone before I could register he'd been there.
Sometimes he'd stop on the other side of the street and stand there a while.
Watching the customers come and go. Watching me greet people at the door.
Then he'd get back on his bike and leave.
I pretended not to notice.
Then things started appearing outside the restaurant.
A bag of fresh strawberries. A neatly boxed strawberry cake.
I knew they were from him. But I didn't bring them inside, and I didn't throw them away either.
I left them where they were. Whoever wanted them could take them.
After a while the things came less and less often. Then they stopped altogether.
One evening, ju
