The rising sun paints, orange, the interior of the shop, as it sneaks through the window. One by one it plants kisses on the cheeks of the bakery patrons, eyes pinching at the intensity of its ardour. Coffee mugs move in an intricate dance from varnished wood top tables to lips for sips at breaks in conversations. Voices are hushed this early in the morning, passing between bodies leaning into each others words.
The days news lays a shadow through the center of the room, cast by a man at the window table. Power tie pierced by a gold tie pin, gleams the silver lining. Each page turn of his paper, echoes its crispness. His face gives way the thoughts rummaging around behind his eyes. At a neighboring table, a college girl sways to the music in her ears as her fingers tap the keys of her laptop.
Jangling bells, tied loose to the door handle, announce another entrance. A boy and his sister, a nappy haired teddy bear tucked under her arm. Fresh from the hive, they are bees, buzzing the ears of those settled comfortably already. Table by table, they talk to everyone, and no one, all at once. Another jangle, their mother, cell to her ear informs everyone that Uncle Joe is suspect of marital impropriety, her hands punctuating the words for the listener.
The baker, behind the glass counter displaying his delicate wares, smiles as he does to each person that graces his shop. Retrieving two cookies from a plate, he settles the storm that has blown in, then focuses on the mother. His asking gaze begs her off the phone, with a promise to finish telling the other party the story once she is "finished her business."
Her shoulders settle into the comfort of his voice and he bags her requests to take with her. Other patrons return to their conversations, easy rhythm restored to the atmosphere. People come and go, leaving ripples that stretch to the edges of this pond. The baker, finished with the customer, surveys landscape then turns the counter over to an apron clad lady and slips through a door out of sight.
Finishing my coffee, I slip my pen and notebook into my bag, place my cup on the bar and enter the world through the exit door. Heat reflects from the sidewalk and brick exterior of the building, sweat beading in seconds on my forehead as I make my way through the alley to find my car in the parking lot.
Sitting behind the wheel, allowing the cool air to wash my face, I watch as more bodies shuffle feet across the asphalt. They do not follow the path set between the buildings but congregate by the back door. Not nearly as neat as the patrons indoors, dirt coats pores of many, mismatched clothing hangs their frames. Some smoke, most sit on curbs or in small shadows cast by the dumpster or air condition unit.
The metal door yawns and the baker pushes a cart through, laden with brightly colored cakes and sweet creations he birthed just this morning, each wrapped in plastic. He wheels the cart through them to the dumpster, sharing "good morning" here and there, then unloads the burden onto a small table the garbage truck never seems to take.
He retreats to the door with the empty cart, standing as they each take one or two things from the pile until it is gone. His smile is even brighter than it was before and they respect him, so stay orderly ensuring each gets a treat. When the last one wanders off, he disappears into the shop to greet customers, make cakes or whatever the day has in store.
Releasing the parking break, I slip the car into gear and drive out of the parking lot beyond the election signs that grow along the roadside, taking a bit of his subversive smile with me for the journey.