It was a windy day when it happened. One of those days when the sky is purple, I’d say violet if I was being exact, and no matter how hard you squint, your eyes end up looking like a hybrid of a tomato and a fire truck. The bakery was fairly packed as it always is on those sorts of days, desperate people trying to save themselves from the breezy talons of the autumn winds, clinging for dear life to the thick and buttery air. The walls resonated with the tedious dings of the bell alerting everyone within a mile that another goddamn person was in the correct vicinity to buy some bread. I was pretending to be a courteous young man as I must while explaining the beneficiaries of rye bread to elderly women that smell of cats and the cardboard-y cheese that you get on those pre-prepared sandwiches in gas stations. Common courtesy is quite a funny idea really. Who defines common? I would think that the Queen of England’s idea of common courtesy would be quite different from that of an uneducated mass murderer. Any who, I was behaving myself as well as I find possible in such boring situations. Just the classic stuff, nothing special, looking people in the eye, please and thank you and so on. I was bagging custard scrolls for a woman who looked as if she needed a shower and a double espresso. And then she came in.

I barely noticed her at first, too absorbed in getting three sticky lumps of pastry into a tiny brown paper bag without becoming completely covered in the glazy slime. But by the time she was inspecting the cabinet I only had eyes for her. She was beautiful, but not in the cliché way that you’d expect. Her hair was short and tousled as if she’d flown here, soaring on the Sydney winds. It was fairly dark, nothing particularly unusual. There was a scattering of honey coloured freckles across the bridge of her nose continued just under half way across her bright pink cheeks. The entire time she was in the shop, she smiled. I was head over heels from the word go. I handed the woman her scrolls and accepted her money, never taking my eyes off the girl. Her eyes were azure blue and danced with delight as they glanced at the selections in the cabinet. She was dressed in Target jeans and a plain red sweatshirt. It was an outfit elegant enough to rival the finest gown, as beautiful as a setting Caribbean sun. I had passed initial interest, crush and love. I was obsessed.

Despite what you may be thinking, it wasn’t because I find freckles and short hair a massive turn on. It was the aura of amazing confidence and contentment that she carried herself with. It was this that had taken me over. So many girls these days are all about fitting in, but to fit in you’ve got to stand out, but if you stand out too much you not only stand out but also stick out. That was her. She wasn’t cliché. She wasn’t cliché non cliché either. She stuck out. And that was why I noticed her. She was different, I didn’t need to talk to her to know exactly who I would find underneath. She was exquisite. What was she doing in my bakery? I felt as if she should be somewhere more unusual and special. Yet, she seemed so in her element that it was as if she had lived there all her life. I suddenly became aware that she was looking straight at me in a patient manner. Of course! What was I doing? I made my way to face her over the counter in the coolest manner I could muster. I took a brief second, a deep breath and an enormous leap of faith.

“Welcome to Wood Smoke Bakery. My name is Felix, can I help you?”

She tilted her head slightly to the right with a quizzical, yet somehow wondrous, expression on her perfectly imperfect face. “Do I look as if I need help?”

“Uh… I can come back…”

“Oh, no, stay. I just was wondering. You did ask. Do you just ask everyone if they need help?” I was about to answer but she never gave me the chance. “That’s a very sweet thought.”

I was all a flutter. Was she really complimenting me? I couldn’t believe it. I had seduced her with my awkwardness.

“Yeah, it’s a part of the job. I was just checking if I could get something from the cabinet for you.”

The scene changed like a tsunami engulfing the Titanic right in the middle of the goodbye scene between Jack and Rose. She thrust her tiny hands onto her hips, “Well, you could’ve just said that, couldn’t you? Seems like a load of rubbish to me. Like you’re just trying to woo me with your chivalry and then BAHM. It’s not personal, it’s just business.”

Her soft features did nothing to alter her harsh words, cutting deep into my soul.

“I’m sorry,” I said, pathetically attempting to dodge her razor sharp tongue, “Can I get you anything from the cabinet?”

It was pure magic, what happened next. As if I’d snapped my fingers she emerged from her trance of inconsolable anger. She asked for a Strawberry Danish with a smile sweet enough to rival any pastry in the room. And I couldn’t be sure but when I bent down to retrieve her choice, I swear that I saw her wink at me. Perhaps it was wishful thinking, I’ll never be certain. All I know is that as she bounced out of the bakery, I was in an absolute daze. Not thinking straight, I traipsed out after her. Her hips swung in perfect rhythm with her steps, hypnotizing me with her angelic radiance. You know how sometimes when you’re around “pretty people” you end up feeling like rubbish? This girl made you feel like a million bucks just by looking at you. It felt bizarre, yet exhilarating, following the most incredible girl in the world through the streets of suburban Sydney. We were coming up to Circular Quay now, battling drizzles and drips of tourists taking photographs of a juggling act. I lost sight of her at one point but found her again quickly to discover the terrible truth. She was getting on a ferry. I went through every negative emotion I know of within about 10 seconds; disappointment, soul crushing depression, anger, frustration, fear, misery. I was turning around. Part of me had pretty much accepted that it wasn’t meant to be, when something caught my attention. A flash of bright turquoise. It’s quite a compelling colour, turquoise. I went to it. It was a book. I picked it up, running my forefinger along its spine. She had dropped this, I knew she had but when I looked up, she was gone, leaving nothing but a trail of sugary pastry wisps. I turned the book over in my hand. The heavy leather was embedded with the words “Kizzy’s Book.”

“Kizzy” I said to myself, trying out the name aloud. It was perfect – sweet and exotic, strong and poignant. So that was my mystery girl. Kizzy, who ate Strawberry Danishes for breakfast, scowled at strangers for pretending to be chivalrous, smiled at pastries and bread, and wrote in a notebook that she carried around everywhere. I smiled just at the thought of her warm, round face and open demeanor. A new question was raised in my mind. This is her book – should I return it? How could I? She was gone and I had no way of finding her. If I dropped my diary (not that I keep one, of course), would I really want a total stranger to follow me and return it? Or would I simply hope that it found a pleasant home and made good choices? I guess it would depend what was written in it. So it was this paradox that led me to my next decision. I just want to make it clear that I am not a stalker nor pervert. What I did was entirely a result of a fiery mixture of passionate love and plain curiosity. I opened the book to page one. And I read it. All of it.