Something to do with food

He had to choose quickly because the line was long and those behind him seemed impatient. He stood and scanned the glass case of breads and pastries. Was that a peach tart or was it mango? No signs of course, as this was one of those places where if you needed to read, you needed to go to another bakery. He took a deep breath and announced his choices.

Three pieces of carrot cake, two blueberry muffins, and two of those tarts, please. The apricot ones, nice choice. Apricot? He’d have to eat them, himself. Who’d want an apricot tart, anyway? The woman behind him ordered a dozen of the large croissants. The server handed him the large white box, tied with brown rough string, a smiley face drawn in grease pencil, next to the price, below a nice “thank you”, $18.50.

Looking toward the checkout isle number 4, manned by Hilda the German exchange student, he noticed two Sunday New York Times left. He walked quickly to the rack, took one, checked to see if the magazine and book review were inside, and stood in Hilda’s line, behind an older woman with chiseled biceps and a Cubs ball cap, her blond ponytail neatly protruding from the Velcro adjusting strap. She was the croissant lady, who looked as if a croissant had not past her lips in the past month.

Where did you get the Times. Her question startled him, as he was watching Hilda’s hands blipping items, and working the keyboard. Why her hands anyway? Croissant lady had turned around to address him. He said, over there, below the Sunny Fresh Dairy sign. Below the Star. Is there one left?

She didn’t hear his question as she moved like a cat to the rack. She came back empty handed, frowning. He thought for a second. Part with his Sunday comfort blanket? No way. But he could save the six bucks, buy the city paper, and maybe find a copy of the New York Times later today at the coffee shop on Grand. Take the chance. Nope.

He smiled, shrugged his shoulders, and noticed her Tiffany silver watch with the diamonds. Ten-thirty. His phone beeped in his pocket. Croissant lady stepped out the door into the rain and a driver with an umbrella met her, took her two bags, and opened the rear door to the black Mercedes, License number 42B.

He checked his text.

dont 4get sunday nyt :-)