Apple Pie

     Cocking an eyebrow, I watched Lei, who darted around the apartment in search of the last piece of their outfit. For a brief moment, they disappeared into their room, caused a few crashes, and then emerged with a tan blazer over their white mock neck. 

    "Goodness, we're just restocking on pie," I said, looking them up and down, "Not visiting the president."

    "I will never visit the president," Lei said, "so I do not need to save my outfits for such a special occasion. Therefore, I should look glamorous at every opportunity." With their head held high, they strut out of the apartment. 

    When Lei first moved in, they introduced me to a bakery a few blocks down from our apartment. It was a family-owned shop, and most of its products were homemade. 

     As Lei studied the raisin bread sitting happily on display in the bright glass case, I counted the slices in my apple pie. It stared back at me from its cardboard confinement, oblivious to its inevitable doom. 

    "It's my turn to pay, right?" Lei said, appearing beside me with a fat loaf of bread.

    The walk home took around 15 minutes, so Lei liked to fill the silence with questions. Sometimes, they reminded me a lot of my cousin, Gabriel. He lived with my aunt and uncle in London, where he worked for some private investigation place. 

    Whenever I visited, Gabriel asked lots of questions. Most of them were small talk, such as "How's San Francisco these days?" or "How's school? How are your grades?" Occasionally, he'd come up with a very personal question like "How are things with your sister?" 

    "Why do you like apple pie?" Lei asked, "Not pumpkin or blueberry?" 

    "Apple pie reminds me of London," I replied, "where my family is." Lei went silent. 

    "Didn't you grow up here?" they said, "Aren't your parents and sister here? In California?" Tapping anxiously on the cardboard box, I searched for an answer. 

    "They're big jerks," I finally said, "I have cousins in London who are much nicer. So I'd like to think my family's there. It also makes me sound cool." Nodding, Lei stuffed their hands in their pockets, and we walked awkwardly along. 

    "Does your family like apple pie?" they said a while after.

    "My cousin Katherine's apple pie is delicious," I replied, "My cousin Mattias is learning, but my cousin Gabriel is a lost cause." Nodding again, Lei continued to walk in silence. 

    Walking in San Francisco was a chore because of the city's countless hills. Instead of counting distance by blocks, I counted the hills. From our apartment to the bakery, we needed to walk three hills. 

    After passing the first hill, we had two more left to go. Then one, and then zero. 

    I waited for Lei at the entrance to the building. As Lei strode casually towards me, they whistled a tune that broke the bustle of the city. 

    I recognized the song. When they were in a good mood, Lei sang the lyrics and let them dance through the cracks under their door. At night, when we did our schoolwork, they played the song to drown out our neighbors' ruckus.

    It became a quiet routine for us. Someday, I'd like to share one of my favorite songs with Lei. Maybe I could even teach them to dance. Perhaps we could dance to them together.