Maya almost didn't notice the lemon tart sitting on the corner of her desk until the smell hit her — bright and citrusy, a little sharp at the edges. She looked up from her paperwork to find her coworker Dennis grinning in the doorway.
"From the bakery on Fifth," he said. "They had one left."
Dennis was nothing if not obliging. He remembered how Maya had mentioned, weeks ago, that lemon was her favorite. She hadn't expected him to actually file that away.
She took a small bite and let the sourness bloom across her tongue. Perfect.
The afternoon passed quietly. Around three o'clock, Maya gathered her coat and bag, reminding herself she had an appointment. She'd been squinting at spreadsheets for months before finally scheduling a visit to the optometrist. The doctor had been kind, patient, and thorough — the sort of person who made you feel unhurried even when the waiting room was full.
On the subway home, someone gave her a careless shove while rushing through the closing doors. Maya grabbed the overhead bar, steadied herself, and exhaled slowly. Around her, other passengers scrolled through phones or stared at their shoes. Nobody acknowledged what had happened.
She settled into her spot near the window with complete aplomb, adjusting her bag and returning to the podcast she'd been listening to, as if the whole thing had been nothing more than a minor shift in the weather. The train hummed forward. Outside, the city streaked past in amber and gray.
She had a lemon tart waiting at home. That was enough.