My husband stopped at the bakery to get some bread, and his phone was connected to the car radio. A message from “Marek the Plumber” flashed across the screen: “You left your glasses by my bed. I’ll bring them back on Thursday.” In the morning, he searched the entire house for his glasses.
Grzegorz jumped out of the car before I could say that I would also take a cheese bun.
“Two minutes, Danka. Don’t turn it off, let the radio play,” he said, slamming the door.
I sat with a grocery bag on my lap, watching him join the queue behind the woman with the cart. Saturday, half past eight, always the same at the bakery on Ozimska Street. Something from the eighties was playing on the radio, and I was thinking about having to search the apartment again when I got back. Because Grześ’s glasses – those good, progressive, brown-rimmed ones that we paid more for last year than the refrigerator – were gone.
