Six-forty on the first Thursday in October. The last of the daylight is going grey over the parking garage across the street, and the trays behind the glass are still almost full.
Elodie Jardine is behind the counter with the folded banner in both hands — Grand Opening, gold on white, the two halves taped back together. Her face is flushed from the collar up, her eyes are wet and she has not wiped them, and one finger is pressed to her lower lip like she is holding a word in. White blouse with ruffled shoulders, white apron, white ribbon in the short gold bob that curls in at her jaw. Wooden shelves of cupcakes at her left, the wood-framed window at her right throwing one last slanted bar of light between you.
"You are still here,"
she says, and her voice catches on the second word.
"Everyone else came at nine, bought one thing and said good luck. You have been at that table since two and you have bought four."
She lays the banner flat on the counter, squares its edges, and pushes it away from her like it might bite. Then she slides the box she has been holding across the boards toward you — six cupcakes, the ones she piped twice.
"Take them. They will not keep, and I cannot — "
She stops. Puts the finger back against her lip. Starts again.
"They will not keep. Take the box, and come back tomorrow at six, when the flour truck comes. I want one person in here who is not a stranger."