Tim had moved into the house next door at the beginning of the year. He was single, a little older than Mark and I, and a businessman of some sort who...e work required constant travel during the week but that returned him home every Friday evening in time for the next morning's baking. Summer arrived, and the redolent yeast and wheat and caraway seeds and rye and cardamom hung in the barely moving air for just that much longer. They were "our" Saturdays then, as much a ritual for me as Mark's. In the morning, both of us were aroused by the doorbell. It was the milkman. I asked for her forgiveness as I was supposed to rise much earlier. She ordered me to address him immediately. I started to change my clothes. She said angrily, “By whose permission are you doing that?” I said, ” but how can I go outside in this dress?” She said, “It seems that you need one more session.” I said sorry to her and quickly rushed towards the entrance door. The idea of milkman seeing me in a transparent. More

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