Tea and cookies

I watched her as I made my way down the hallway. I was familiar with her, even knew her name, something that I couldn’t say about most of my other neighbors. Mrs. Clancy, the apartment complex’s ubiquitous octogenarian, was struggling with her foldable shopping cart. She was stuck in her doorway and the harder she tried to exit her small one-bedroom with a view, the more entangled she became in her bulky coat and oversized patent leather handbag. A quick extrication, and she was free to make her weekly trek to our nearby market. I carried the cart down the elevator, helping her unfold it once on the street level. With a hug and the promise of a plate of fresh baked cookies, Mrs. C was on her way. As she slowly walked the half block to the store, I waited to make sure she arrived safely. Turning the opposite direction I headed to my office. The thought of home-baked

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