By Antara Mukherjee

Issue no 24

A soft, square loaf succumbing to the steely edge of a knife plumped back when Jonny got a call saying that his mother was dying. He kept the phone down and stood staring at the swirl of lemon and orange rinds in the crystal jar that had caught the sun in that upscale London deli. All around him tables were abuzz, with spoons and knives clinking on ceramic plates as waitresses swivelled around pouring coffee with their lipstick smiles. It was Wednesday, a week away from Christmas. He threw his black monogrammed apron and ran his staff through the orders and promotions for the week…