It was Julian, the local baker who had spent the last three decades perfecting the crust of the town's sourdough. He was her age, with hair the color of woodsmoke and hands that always smelled faintly of yeast and sea salt.
Julian walked over, not looking at the garden, but at her. "I brought the rosemary focaccia. Still warm enough to melt the butter." mature plump
They sat on the weathered stone bench beneath the trellis. There was no rush to their conversation, no frantic energy of youth trying to prove a point. They talked about the upcoming harvest festival and the way the light changed in the valley come September. It was Julian, the local baker who had