
THE PASTRY SHOP by Babak Lakghomi
He dipped his finger in the whipping cream and held it in front of the boy’s mouth. The boy looked down at his feet, then raised his head and licked the cream from the man’s finger.

He dipped his finger in the whipping cream and held it in front of the boy’s mouth. The boy looked down at his feet, then raised his head and licked the cream from the man’s finger.

The phone number I have, my phone number for the last 16 years at least, used to be this other guy’s phone number—

Oh dear is a fretful tingle. A tingle hatches hungry dread. Roger drops to knees.

I decided to order the burrito. I pronounced “burrito” wrong. The word fell from me, flabbergasting and impossible.

He’s lying on his back. His useless, hairless legs stay wherever I put them.

What your therapist doesn’t realize, you want to tell him, is that any length of loneliness is too long.

A gust of wind blows me forward. The storm follows me in through the door. The snow swirls at my feet. I laugh like a madman as I slip on the slick tiles.


I am lost in a sky of turbulence and haze—and to be lost is to never be home. Today is the first day of the year; it is also the first year you are not around.

One of my earliest memories is of jumping down all the stairs at once but it must’ve been a dream.