When the sunset cuts through the city-scape it tends to create this golden light; the result of hundreds of glass panels in a big city like ours. Sonny’s Bakery is usually a quiet place, tucked between a small vinyl shop and a shoe repairman on the outskirts of the city, but every once in a while we get someone looking for a loaf or a nice cinnamon roll.
On this particular Friday, just before five o’clock, I was sitting on a red stool behind the counter, reading my crime novel when I noticed a slender woman with auburn hair and gargantuan sunglasses walking up to the doors. Shortly after this, I spotted a stout man with a sharp black crew cut and a blue polo, distracted by his phone, walk right into her. They looked incredibly confused for a moment, and then they started laughing. The man put his phone into his jacket pocket and smiled as he grabbed the handle and opened the door for her.
“Thanks, I’m Roxana,” I heard her say as she lifted her sunglasses to reveal a pair of sparkling green eyes. She had this smile about her, confident and strong.
“Well my name’s Gus. Sorry about bumping into you like that; I guess I wasn’t looking.”
“It’s fine, I probably should have been watching out too,” she said. They both came up to me, smiling like two kids who’d just gotten off the new roller coaster at Valley Fair. Roxana turned to look at me, “Um, Foster, is it?” she asked, eying my name tag.
I stood up from the stool and walked over to the metal countertop, “Yeah, what can I do for you?” I asked, offering a smile which paled in comparison to hers.
“I just need one loaf of your freshest Italian,” she said, and I noticed Gus’ eyes widen.
“Well hey, that’s what I’m getting too!” he said, clapping his hands together once. I grew a tad uneasy and glanced over my shoulder, through the door to the store room, at my brown bag. “I’m making a nice meal for my girlfriend, Rose. She loves Italian, so I figured I would fix her some bruschetta, fettuccine Alfredo, and maybe something sweet to wrap it all up.”
“Really?” Roxana asked excitedly, “My uncle Franco is in town from New York, and he wants to spend some time with my family so we’re going to have a good Italian feast tonight. His wife Donna just passed away last week, and it’s really killing him.”
I cleared my throat, and they turned to look at me, the guy in the green apron with the matching paper hat. Their smiles faded a little when they saw my expression. “I actually only have one loaf of Italian left, a catering company stopped by earlier and bought a dozen. See, we always make a baker’s dozen just in case, but… Well that’s not fourteen, now is it?”
Gus frowned, his eyes narrowed, and his brow furled, “You’re saying you’ve only got one loaf left? You didn’t bother making any during the day?”
I rubbed the back of my neck, “Well, we do—we did—they’re just gone now. I’m sorry, I mean we close up at five, and Phil, our baker, left a little after two,” I looked down at the counter, some unwanted guilt washed over me. “It happens, you know?”
Roxana pursed her lips, tarnishing her perfect smile, and looked away from Gus and me, “This is ridiculous, you’re sure you don’t have any left?” Her massive sunglasses bobbed on her lofty hair as she spoke.
“I mean, I can check in the back quick if you want,” I said.
“Please!” Gus said, arms folded. So that’s what I did. Pushing past the steel swinging door, I walked past a few steel shelves full of pumpernickel, rye, sourdough, French, whole grain, and specialty loaves infused with cinnamon or raisins, or whatever Phil thought sounded good that day.
No Italian, whatsoever. I glanced at my tightly sealed brown paper bag lying on the shelf, waiting, before heading back into the storefront.
“Nothing back there,” I said, shoving my hands into my apron pockets. “I could just cut the loaf we have left—”
“No!” they both exclaimed. Then they started to go on for a minute or so about how each of them needed it more, because so and so was sad, or so and so loves Italian, or whatever. I simply didn’t care. After a moment, they slowed their ramble and looked at each other.
“Look at us; we’re acting like a couple of children,” Roxana said, “You can have the loaf, you’ve got a special girl to impress anyway, aye?” She turned back to me, looking embarrassed if not ashamed, “I’ll just take a loaf of French.” She hesitated for a second. “You do have French, right?”
With a smile I reassured her that we had a couple loaves left before heading back to the shelves. I searched up and down the shelves again, this time looking for a baguette. Lucky for them, we had three left, so I grabbed one before heading back to the front. I thought of my bag once again.
I rang them up, Gus seemed pleased, and they went on their respective ways; Gus went back to texting, and Roxana donned her sunglasses as they trotted away.
Closing time came, as it does every day. I counted down the till, wrapped everything up, grabbed my jacket, tossed my book into my backpack, and grabbed my paper bag. Finally, I locked up and left through the heavy back door. The clouds had started to stretch and darken, finally blotting out whatever remained of the sun. The buildings stopped shining and my car sat just where I’d left it that morning, in the parking space closest to the street. I hopped in and tossed my bag and backpack into the passenger’s seat. My loaf of Italian bread slid out of the brown bag as it tumbled onto the dark leather; crumbs went everywhere. So I like to have good sandwiches, sue me, there’s no way I was giving that up. And hey, nobody’s perfect, right?
I cranked the keys in my old car’s ignition, and drove off through the dark.
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