The Bakery
The bakery is run by Mr. Crumb — truly his name; the town considers it a great municipal blessing — a broad, floury man who greets you like a returning soldier.
"Edith's! Yes! Sit down, sit down." A currant bun appears before you with the speed of sleight of hand. "On the house. She had one every week without fail. Lovely woman. Wrong about a great many things, mind, but lovely."
You ask what she was wrong about.
"Oh," he says, suddenly very interested in his oven, "calendars. We bake six days a week here. Same as anyone. Same as anyone," he repeats, louder, apparently for the benefit of the bread.