She returned to the counter
after 'bout half an hour
desiring a cinnamon bun
the final one
I did not ask why; frankly
I did not care. My emotional
connection started and ended
with the smile I offered from
behind my cash register shield.
“I've had a bad week,” she offers
as if to explain why she orders the
sweet at the end of her meal.
“And when I am sad, I eat.”
While this was rather apparent, she
seemed to have mistaken the stains on
my apron for the scribblings of a
psychiatrist's leather-bound journal.
Surely it was not justification she
sought because she had already
found that in the ding of the
microwave I used to heat up
her pastry. Twenty-five seconds of silence
passed, and that bell was all she
needed to seal herself into her private
hell. I handed her the formerly frozen
comfort food and she turned away, offering a
curt “Thank you” and returning to
her seat by the window.
Each bite tainted by a sadness I had
No way of lessening.