Cinnamon Buns By L.R. Riley
Cinnamon, sugar, and the smell of freshly-baked bread. Lots of it, from the strength of the scent. The rustle of the paper bag confirmed it.
The bearer of the bag and I get on the train together at the same time every day. More often than not, we sat a few seats apart. I’d always wondered who brings them and who they bring the buns to. Of course, I always assume everyone is on their way home just like I am. Then again, in this day and age, the bearer of the cinnamon buns might well be just about to go to work. Evening shifts have become the norm even for those who are not in the medical field.
A woman’s voice announces the arrival of my train. The recording hasn’t changed in years but I probably wouldn’t have noticed if I hadn’t lost my sight. I’ve learned to pay more attention to everything since.
‘Need help getting on your train?’
I smile. The station guards and assistants have gotten to know me well in the past years. Though I can normally manage on my own, the offers of help remain greatly appreciated, especially when I need to get off a busy platform.
‘Joel, right? How’s your cat?’ I feel the heat coming from his hand over mine and I reach for his arm before standing up.
‘Much better now that she’s home. She appreciates the toy you gave her.’ He walks me into the train and helps me settle into the nearest seat. I feel a passenger shuffle sideways to make room for me.
‘Glad to hear it!’ ‘See you tomorrow!’
Oddly, the scent doesn’t follow me into the car. I wonder if, perhaps, it was someone else carrying the bag of cinnamon buns this afternoon. I’m a little saddened by the thought. I’d grown accustomed to enjoying the smell of bread all the way up to my stop.
It feels like hours before I hear the beep that signalled the closing of the doors. The voice rattles off the names of the next stops and, next to me, I hear the soft clicking of someone tapping out a message on his or her phone. I lean back and close my eyes. Maybe tomorrow.
I make my way down the stairs slowly, carefully tapping out my path. Each step around me has its own rhythm. I’ve come to call it all ‘city music’. It was comforting and chaotic at the same time. It’s been three years and I still cannot get over how exciting it is to listen to everything. But I would be lying if I said I wasn’t excited by the prospect of possibly smelling those cinnamon buns.
I deliberately take my time deciding where to sit and wait for the train. I’d almost reached the end of the platform before I catch it. I turn around towards it and wait until the movement seems to have stopped. I catch it then. A light, woody scent comes through and I can’t help but imagine some grandmother in the middle of nowhere, baking for her beloved grandchildren.
‘That smells great,’ I say out loud, hoping for a response that would, at least, stop me from looking like an idiot.
‘The buns?’
I don’t think I understood describing a voice as being like honey before today. Paper rustled and I feel the steam from a hot bun near my cheek. I turn my head.
‘Please, have one. I’ve loads more.’
I nod and smile. I could feel a light tingle creep across my cheek.
‘Thank you.’ I take the bread in my hand and breathe in deeply. The warmth of the bread combined with the cinnamon brought images of fireplaces and plush chairs. I lose myself in the picture for a few minutes.
‘I’ve seen you here a lot. You get off before I do. Two stops ahead, actually.’ ‘You didn’t get on yesterday.’ It slips out before I can stop myself.
‘Ha!’ Laughter that’s just as smooth and rich despite the volume. ‘I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that you noticed. I got a phone call just before the train arrived. I had to lock myself in a stall to answer it – too noisy out here.’
The conversation is easy. I suppose it helped that we were already somewhat familiar with each other. With each movement I discerned more scents. Rosemary and lavender shampoo. Mint underneath the woody cologne. The smell of coffee with every breath – maybe if I knew more about coffee, I could even tell what kind.
‘Hey, the train’s here. Let me help you. I mean, I know the people here at the station help you out but, you could always use more friends, right?’
I nod and we stand, hand in hand, as we make our way into the train. We continue conversing and I grasp my stick firmly as the train nears my stop.
‘Same time tomorrow?’
‘Sure. I’ll be the one smelling of cinnamon buns.’ It’s my turn to laugh.
My heart feels lighter somehow, having finally shared the ride. For the first time, I feel grateful for my lost sight. I wouldn’t have noticed the cinnamon buns otherwise.
Judges Comments
L.R. Riley conjures a world of the senses in Cinnamon Buns, the runner-up in our 1,000-word short story – the story of a regular train journey told through an interior monologue and given tension and poignancy through the use of a blind narrator. We are shown the world through the perceptions of L.R.'s narrator, and from the start the focus is on the cinnamon buns of the title, which L.R. conveys to us with such immediacy that we're right there, from the very beginning, smelling the spice and sugar.
Within the 1,000-word limit, L.R. has mingled the narrator's heightened sense perceptions with the story of the meeting with the person who carries the buns. We can't help but warm to the narrator; in a story that has sensuality as well as sense perception as a theme, the narrator has a sweetness about them that shows in their philosophical, even generous, approach to learning to live with their blindness. It's a sweet story but not a saccahrine one: there's an acknowlegement of the pain of coming to terms with blindness and we are made to realise that this different way of experiencing the world is done through necessity, not choice.
It is, though, a story about finding pleasure. The narrator's sweet, accepting nature is matched by the friendly sugariness of the buns, and the pleasure the narrator has in their daily sensory encounter with the baking smells. The choice of cake L.R. has made for her narrator is significant: cinnamon buns are comforting, homey, spicy - the kind of thing you can consume every day. In Cinnamon Buns, the world opens up because of small pleasures and an understanding that there are more ways of 'meeting' a person than by seeing them. Look at the detailed way L.R. conveys the bearer of the buns via sense impressions: an impression of character built up through layers of scent, all of which give us clues. It's a lovely story that has kindness and openness at its heart, and because it illuminates a form of perception, it leaves its reader with an understanding of a different way in which the world might be experienced.