She cut the whole damn line like she owned the place—loud, smug, dripping in diamonds—and barked her brunch order as if the rest of us were furniture.
I stood there, fuming, croissant dreams fading fast while she tried to bulldoze past thirty patient people like none of us mattered.
You could feel the room shift. The looks, the tension, the shared outrage rising like steam off the espresso machine.
And when I stepped forward to stop her, I didn’t know what would come next—just that someone had to say it.
She wasn’t done. Not by a long shot. But what she didn’t know—what made every second worth it—was that justice had already been quietly set in motion… and it was about to taste very sweet.
The Scent of Trouble and Sugar: The Saturday Morning Promise
The aroma hit me before I even parked the car – that glorious, yeasty perfume of sugar browning, butter melting, coffee beans surrendering their dark souls. Saturday morning. My Saturday morning. And for the last six years, Heavenly Bites Bakery had been the cornerstone of this sacred ritual. An almond croissant, still warm, flaky enough to shatter at a touch, and a large black coffee. Simple. Necessary.
My husband, Mark, was off on his Saturday bike ride, a Lycra-clad blur chasing endorphins. My son, Alex, sixteen and currently embodying the term “moody teenager” with Oscar-worthy dedication, was probably still glued to his phone screen in the cave he called his bedroom.
Just last night, another battle of wills. “You just don’t get it, Mom,” he’d sighed, the weight of the world on his narrow shoulders because I’d suggested maybe, just maybe, five hours of video games wasn’t the optimal pre-exam study plan. That was the looming cloud, wasn’t it?
This growing chasm with Alex, this feeling of being perpetually on the wrong side of his understanding. It gnawed at me, a dull ache that even the promise of a perfect pastry couldn’t quite erase.
The line, as expected, was already snaking out the door of Heavenly Bites, a testament to their reputation. It was 9:03 AM. Sunshine, a crisp early autumn tang in the air, the low hum of weekend conversations. I took my place, a familiar mix of resignation and anticipation settling in. Fifteen, maybe twenty minutes. A small price for a slice of bliss.
I teach high school English. Patience is, theoretically, part of my skill set. Dealing with challenging personalities is practically in the job description. But sometimes, the reservoir runs low, especially when home feels like another classroom where I’m failing the primary subject: my own kid.
The line inched forward. A young couple ahead of me, giggling. An older gentleman, engrossed in a paperback. The usual Saturday scene. My stomach gave a little rumble. Almost there.
The Grand Entrance
That’s when she arrived. Or rather, erupted.
A woman, probably late forties, maybe early fifties, dressed in what I can only describe as “aggressively expensive casual.” Designer jeans that looked uncomfortably tight, a silk blouse that probably cost more than my monthly grocery bill, and enough gold jewelry to make a pirate blush. She was on her phone, of course. And not just on it, but projecting into it, her voice a sharp, commanding bray that sliced through the pleasant bakery buzz.
“No, Bartholomew, I specifically said the azure napkins, not the cerulean! Are you incapable of understanding simple instructions? This brunch is critically important!”
She didn’t even glance at the line. Didn’t acknowledge the thirty-odd people patiently waiting. She just… breezed. Right past all of us, a galleon in full, entitled sail, heading straight for the counter as if an invisible red carpet had unfurled at her feet.
My jaw tightened. A little flicker of disbelief, then a surge of annoyance. I saw heads turn, eyebrows lift. A collective, silent “Did you see that?” rippled down the queue.
The young man behind the counter, Ben – sweet kid, probably still in college, always had a cheerful word – looked up, his welcoming smile faltering as this human bulldozer zeroed in on him. He was in the middle of serving Mrs. Henderson, who always bought a sourdough loaf and six molasses cookies.
This newcomer, Bartholomew’s tormentor, actually tapped her foot, phone still pressed to her ear, as if Ben and Mrs. Henderson were an inconvenient delay in her profoundly significant existence. The injustice of it, so blatant, so unapologetic, felt like a tiny, sharp pebble in my shoe. One I couldn’t quite ignore.
The Unspoken Rules
The line shuffled forward another step. I was now close enough to see the expensive, slightly frazzled weave of the woman’s hair, the determined set of her jaw as she ended her call with a curt, “Fix it!”
She then turned her full, imperious attention to Ben, who was still carefully bagging Mrs. Henderson’s cookies. “Excuse me,” she said, not a question but a demand. “I need to place a rather large order, and I’m in a considerable hurry.”
Mrs. Henderson, bless her heart, looked mildly flustered. Ben, to his credit, managed a polite, “I’ll be right with you, ma’am, just finishing up here.”
“Well, hurry it up,” the woman snapped, glancing at a diamond-encrusted watch that probably cost more than my car.
My blood pressure, already a bit elevated from the lingering Alex-angst, did a little tap dance. This wasn’t just rudeness; it was a demolition of the unspoken social contract. We wait. We take our turn. It’s how society, even in a bakery line, functions. It’s what I try to teach my students, what I used to be able to model for Alex. The unfairness of it felt personal, a microcosm of bigger battles where the rules seemed to bend for those who shouted loudest.
I could feel the weight of other people’s unspoken outrage, a palpable thing in the sugar-scented air. We were all thinking it. Someone should say something. But who? Confrontation on a Saturday morning over croissants? It felt… beneath us, yet the alternative – letting this stand – felt worse.
My own internal monologue was a frantic whisper: Just let it go, Sarah. It’s not your battle. Get your croissant. Don’t make a scene. But another, stronger voice, the one that had faced down surly teenagers and indifferent administrators, was starting to clear its throat.
The Spark of Indignation
Mrs. Henderson finally completed her transaction, offering Ben a sympathetic smile. Before Ben could even turn to the line-cutter, I felt my feet moving. It wasn’t a conscious decision, more like a reflex. Like when you see a child about to step into traffic.
I took two steps forward, out of my place in line, my shadow stretching just a fraction ahead of me. The woman was already opening her mouth, probably to unleash her “rather large order.”
A sudden calm settled over me, the kind that sometimes arrives just before you do something mildly terrifying. The bakery, for a split second, seemed to go quiet, the hiss of the espresso machine the only sound. I could feel the eyes of the queue on my back.
My voice, when it came, was quieter than I expected, but firm. “Excuse me.”
The woman’s head snapped towards me, annoyance etched on her features. Her eyes, a pale, cold blue, raked over me dismissively. As if I were a mildly irritating insect.
“Yes?” she said, the word clipped.
Here we go, I thought. The small, righteous fire that had been smoldering was now properly lit. This wasn’t just about a place in line anymore. It was about… well, it was about everything, wasn’t it? Respect. Fairness. The simple decency of acknowledging other human beings.
I saw Ben’s eyes widen slightly. He looked trapped, like a rabbit caught between a fox and a… well, me, apparently.
The air crackled. My almond croissant felt a million miles away.
The Entitlement Defense: The Polite Gauntlet Thrown
“Excuse me,” I repeated, my voice steady, though my heart was doing a passable imitation of a hummingbird’s wings. “There’s a line. We’ve all been waiting.” I made a small, inclusive gesture with my hand towards the people stretching out the door. Simple facts. Undeniable.
The woman’s perfectly sculpted eyebrows rose a fraction. She gave a short, sharp laugh, a sound like ice chipping. “And?”
Just “And?” As if my statement was irrelevant, a piece of conversational lint to be brushed aside. The sheer audacity of it was almost stunning. For a moment, I just stared at her, trying to compute the level of self-absorption required to utter that single, dismissive syllable.
I glanced back quickly. The line was rapt. A few encouraging nods. No one was looking away. This was public theater now, and I’d apparently cast myself in a leading role.
“And,” I continued, keeping my tone even, a skill honed by years of explaining Shakespeare to teenagers who’d rather be on TikTok, “it’s customary to go to the end of it. Like everyone else.”
This seemed to genuinely confuse her. As if the concept of “everyone else” was a foreign language she’d never bothered to learn. She shifted her weight, the expensive leather of her handbag creaking softly. Her gaze flickered past me to the line, then back, a flicker of something – irritation? Annoyance? – crossing her face.
“I am in a hurry,” she enunciated, as if I were a particularly slow child. “I have a very important brunch to prepare for. People are depending on me.”
Ah, the “I’m very important” defense. Classic. I’d heard variations of it from students trying to get out of detention. It rarely worked there, either.
The “Do You Know Who I Am?” Gambit
“I understand being in a hurry,” I said, still aiming for reasonable, though the effort was starting to strain. “We probably all have things we’d rather be doing than standing in line. But the system works because we all respect it.” My gaze was level with hers. I wasn’t shouting, wasn’t being aggressive. Just… firm.
This seemed to incense her more than outright anger might have. Her face, already a little flushed, deepened in color. She drew herself up to her full height, which, even in her expensive-looking heels, wasn’t much taller than my own.
“Do you have any idea who I AM?” she huffed, her voice rising, carrying clearly through the now silent bakery.
There it was. The nuclear option of the entitled. The phrase so potent, so reeking of arrogance, it almost shimmered in the air.
A low murmur rippled through the queue. I could hear a muffled snort from somewhere behind me. Even Ben looked like he was trying very hard to study the pastry display with sudden, intense interest.
I met her glare. “No, actually, I don’t,” I replied, truthfully. “And with all due respect, I’m not sure it matters. We’re all customers here.”
Her mouth opened, then closed again. She looked, for a fleeting second, almost… flabbergasted. As if no one had ever failed to recognize her inherent, line-skipping superiority before.
The ethical core of it pulsed: Does status, real or perceived, grant a free pass on common courtesy? My inner teacher screamed NO. My inner tired-mom-who-just-wants-a-croissant sighed. But the teacher was winning.
“The line,” I said, gesturing again, perhaps a bit more pointedly this time, “starts back there.”
The Murmuring Tide of Disapproval
The woman – I mentally christened her Donna, it seemed to fit her particular brand of imperious indignation – looked from me to the line, then back to me. Her eyes narrowed. She was clearly accustomed to obstacles simply melting away. I was not melting.
“This is ridiculous,” Donna declared to the bakery at large. “I have a schedule. I have commitments.”
“So do we, lady!” a voice called out from somewhere mid-line. A gruff, male voice. Then another, a woman’s: “Back of the bus, honey!”
The support, vocalized, seemed to embolden others. A few more murmurs of agreement, “Yeah, that’s right,” “Unbelievable.” It wasn’t a mob, not yet, but it was a clear tide of public opinion, and it wasn’t flowing in Donna’s favor.
Donna’s face tightened. She looked like she’d bitten into a very sour lemon. Her gaze, full of venom, fixed on me. “You,” she began, then seemed to reconsider launching a full-scale verbal assault in the face of a united front.
Ben, seeing his chance, spoke up, his voice still polite but with a new firmness I hadn’t heard from him before. “Ma’am, if you’d just join the queue, I’ll be happy to help you when it’s your turn.” He even managed a small, professional smile. Attaboy, Ben.
The combined pressure – my calm insistence, the crowd’s disapproval, Ben’s polite deflection – seemed to finally penetrate her bubble of self-importance. But she wasn’t going to go gracefully. Oh no.
The Stomp of Fury
Donna let out a sound, a sort of strangled scoff mixed with a hiss. Her eyes, those cold blue chips, promised retribution. She gave me one last, withering glare. If looks could kill, I’d be a pile of ash on the bakery floor.
“Fine!” she spat out, the word sharp as a shard of glass. “But this is utterly unacceptable service! I expect better!”
She then turned, with a theatrical flounce that involved her silk blouse billowing slightly, and began the long, humiliating walk to the very end of the line. It wasn’t a walk, really. It was a stomp. Each step punctuated her outrage. Her back was ramrod straight, her head held high, a queen banished but unbowed in her own mind.
A collective sigh, almost inaudible, seemed to pass through the bakery. The tension didn’t completely dissipate – Donna was now a smoldering volcano at the back of the room – but the immediate crisis had been averted.
I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. My hands were trembling slightly. I gave a small, apologetic smile to the person whose spot I’d technically usurped by stepping forward. They just grinned and gave me a thumbs-up.
As Donna reached the absolute end of the queue, practically by the entrance again, she didn’t just stand there. She pulled out her phone, her thumbs beginning to fly across the screen with furious speed. Texting, I presumed. Probably complaining to Bartholomew about the philistines in this provincial bakery.
Then, she looked up. Directly at me. Her eyes met mine across the crowded room. And a small, almost imperceptible, but deeply unsettling smile touched her lips. It wasn’t a friendly smile. It was the smile of someone plotting.
My almond croissant suddenly felt very far away, and a new, different kind of unease began to settle in its place. What had I just started?
The Simmering Wait and a Subtle Wink: Echoes of the Encounter
The line began its slow, serpentine shuffle forward once more. The immediate drama had passed, but its residue lingered in the air, a faint scent of burnt sugar and indignation. I could feel Donna’s gaze on my back, a persistent, prickling pressure. It was like having a mosquito in the room – you can’t always see it, but you know it’s there, waiting.
A few people ahead of me glanced back, offering small, conspiratorial smiles or subtle nods of approval. One woman mouthed “Thank you.” It was a small comfort, this silent solidarity. It made the weight of Donna’s stare a little more bearable.
I tried to focus on the pastry display, now tantalizingly close. The golden crescents of the almond croissants, the glossy swirls of the cinnamon rolls, the jewel-toned fruit tarts. But my mind kept replaying the confrontation. Had I been too harsh? No. Fair, but firm. Had I escalated it unnecessarily? I didn’t think so. She’d been the escalator.
Still, the unease remained. That little smile of hers. It wasn’t the smile of someone who accepted defeat. It was the smile of someone biding their time. My son Alex, when he was younger and truly caught red-handed, used to have a similar look right before he’d try to negotiate a lesser punishment by distracting me with a completely unrelated, urgent crisis. Donna’s vibe was far more malicious.
The thought of Alex brought back that familiar ache. Was I too confrontational at home? Too quick to lay down the law? Maybe my frustration with my inability to connect with him had spilled over here, finding an easier, more public target. The thought was uncomfortable. Ethics aren’t just for public consumption; they start at home. And lately, I felt like I was failing that particular class.
An Unexpected Comradery
“Good for you.”
The voice was quiet, right beside me. I turned. It was the man who had been directly in front of me, the one reading the paperback. He was in his late fifties, perhaps, with kind eyes crinkled at the corners and a neatly trimmed grey beard. Mr. Evans, his name tag might have read if this were a conference, not a bakery.
He offered a small, genuine smile. “That took courage. Not many people would have spoken up.”
“Oh, well,” I mumbled, feeling a flush creep up my neck. “Someone had to, I suppose.”
“Indeed,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “Some folks just seem to think the world revolves around them.” He then turned back to the counter as it became his turn. “Morning, Ben!” he said cheerfully. “Beautiful day for it.”
His order was surprisingly substantial. “I’ll take three dozen of your famous croissants, please,” he said, his voice clear and amiable. “And maybe six of those blueberry muffins, and a couple of the pain au chocolat.”
Three dozen croissants. My eyebrows shot up. That was… a lot of croissants.
Ben, ever professional, began to carefully box them up. “Big party, sir?” he asked conversationally.
“Daughter’s school fundraiser,” Mr. Evans replied, beaming. “She’s on the organizing committee. Trying to raise money for new library books.
Kids these days, you know, they still need actual books.” He chuckled.
I listened, a small warmth spreading through me. A good cause. A decent man. It was a pleasant counterpoint to Donna’s simmering fury at the back of the line. Mr. Evans’s unassuming demeanor and quiet support felt like a balm. It reminded me that for every Donna in the world, there were also Mr. Evanses. People who understood community, who contributed without fanfare.
He paid, the register whirring. Three large white boxes, tied with string, were placed on the counter. It was an impressive haul.
The Slow Burn of Impatience
Time stretched. Each customer served felt like a small victory for the forces of order, and, I imagined, another twist of the knife for Donna.
From my vantage point, I could still see her, a tight knot of impatience at the very end of the ever-diminishing queue.
She wasn’t texting anymore. Her phone was away. Now, she was pacing. Not much, just a step or two in either direction, like a caged animal.
She checked her diamond-encrusted watch with exaggerated frequency. She let out audible sighs, loud enough to carry, intended, no doubt, to signal her profound suffering.
Her face was a study in controlled fury. Lips pressed into a thin line, a slight flare to her nostrils. If she could have willed the line to evaporate through sheer force of personality, it would have vanished in a puff of designer-perfumed smoke.
I wondered about her “very important brunch.” What kind of guests was she expecting? Other Donnas? Or unsuspecting souls who would be subjected to her inevitable post-bakery meltdown? The thought almost made me pity them. Almost.
There’s a peculiar kind of ethical satisfaction in seeing someone who has deliberately flouted rules being subjected to the natural consequences of the very system they tried to bypass. It wasn’t malicious joy on my part, I told myself. It was… an appreciation for karmic balance. Though, if I were truly honest, there was a tiny, not-so-charitable part of me that was finding her prolonged discomfort rather gratifying. The part that was tired of being unheard by Alex, perhaps.
The bakery was slowly emptying. The initial Saturday morning rush was thinning. Soon, it would be her turn. The air felt charged with a different kind of anticipation now. What would she do? Would she still attempt her “rather large order”? Would she offer a scathing commentary?
The Wink and the Approach
Mr. Evans collected his three large boxes of croissants. As he turned to leave, his path took him right past me. He paused for a fraction of a second.
“Good luck with your almond croissant,” he said, his eyes still twinkling. Then, he gave me a very deliberate, almost conspiratorial wink. A clear, unmistakable wink. Before I could process it or respond, he was out the door, the bell above it tinkling merrily.
A wink? What was that about? It was such a specific, almost mischievous gesture. I frowned, puzzled.
And then, finally, after what felt like an age, it was Donna’s turn. The line behind her was now non-existent. She was the last of the morning rush.
She strode to the counter, if “strode” can be used to describe movement that is simultaneously stiff with indignation and laden with an attempt at regal composure. Her expensive handbag was clutched tightly. She placed it on the counter with a soft thud that still managed to sound aggressive.
Ben, bless his resilient heart, greeted her with the same polite, “Good morning, ma’am. What can I get for you today?” He sounded like he’d rehearsed it.
Donna took a deep, theatrical breath. Her eyes scanned the remaining pastries behind the glass, a flicker of something – calculation? assessment? – in their cold depths.
She plastered on a smile. It was a terrifying thing, all teeth and no warmth, like a shark trying to look friendly. “Right,” she announced, her voice dripping with a saccharine sweetness that didn’t quite mask the steel beneath. It was the kind of tone I used with Alex when I was really not happy but trying to maintain a veneer of parental calm.
“I need,” she paused for dramatic effect, “three dozen of your famous croissants.” Her eyes narrowed, pinning Ben. “For a very important brunch. And I trust,” she added, her voice dropping slightly, becoming almost a purr, but a purr with claws, “that after all this… waiting… you have them.”
My own croissant, now just one person away, suddenly seemed less important than the impending collision of entitlement and reality.
The Crumbling Façade of Entitlement: The Politest of Roadblocks
Ben, the young cashier, didn’t flinch. His composure was admirable; he could probably give diplomats a run for their money. He met Donna’s icy gaze with an expression of unwavering, almost beatific politeness. He even tilted his head slightly, as if considering a perfectly reasonable request.
He tapped a few keys on his point-of-sale screen, a thoughtful frown briefly creasing his brow. The silence stretched, thick and heavy.
Donna’s smile remained fixed, a rictus of forced pleasantry over a volcano of impatience. I could practically hear her internal monologue: Just give me the damn croissants and let me escape this provincial nightmare.
Then, Ben looked up, his smile returning, still sweet, still utterly professional. “Oh, I’m so sorry, ma’am,” he said, his voice laced with just the right amount of gentle regret. It was a masterclass in customer service deflection.
Donna’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. The “sorry” was clearly not the word she was expecting. “Sorry?” she repeated, the sweetness in her own voice beginning to curdle. “Sorry for what, precisely?”
I held my breath. This was it. The moment of truth. My own order, my longed-for almond croissant, was next. I was an unwilling spectator at the climax of a drama I’d helped instigate. Part of me felt a twinge of guilt, but a larger part, the part that had endured Donna’s initial arrogance, was leaning forward with unabashed curiosity.
Ben didn’t miss a beat. “Well, ma’am,” he began, his tone still honeyed…
The Fundraiser’s Unwitting Victory
“The gentleman right before you,” Ben continued, his voice carrying a gentle, almost apologetic lilt, and he made a vague gesture towards the door through which Mr. Evans had recently departed with his three large boxes. “He bought our last three dozen croissants.”
The words hung in the air. Our last three dozen croissants.
Suddenly, Mr. Evans’s wink made perfect, glorious sense. It wasn’t just a friendly gesture. It was a shared secret, a tiny, silent acknowledgment of the impending, ironic justice. He must have seen Donna’s retreat to the back of the line, heard her earlier pronouncements about her “large order,” and put two and two together. Or perhaps he just genuinely needed three dozen croissants and the universe decided to have a little fun. Either way, the effect was spectacular.
Donna’s painted-on smile froze, then began to crack, like cheap varnish on old wood. Her eyes, those cold blue chips, widened almost comically. For a moment, she seemed incapable of processing the information. Disbelief warred with dawning fury on her face.
“He… he what?” she stammered, the carefully constructed façade of the important brunch hostess crumbling before our very eyes.
“Yes, ma’am,” Ben confirmed, his expression one of perfect, professional sympathy. “For his daughter’s school fundraiser. Lovely cause. So, unfortunately,” he spread his hands in a gesture of helpless finality, “we’re all out of croissants for the day.”
All out. For the day. The words echoed in the suddenly very quiet bakery. I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from grinning. This was better than any movie. The sheer, unadulterated, unintentional poetic justice of it was magnificent. The very mechanism of the line, the one she had tried to subvert, had, through the actions of a kind man buying pastries for children’s library books, delivered this perfectly timed blow.
Donna looked like she’d been physically struck.
The Apoplectic Implosion
The color drained from Donna’s face, then rushed back in a furious, mottled tide of crimson and purple. It was like watching a time-lapse of a particularly angry sunset. She sputtered, opening and closing her mouth, but no sound emerged for a good five seconds. She looked from
Ben’s implacably polite face to the now-empty croissant shelf, then back to Ben.
“But… but… my BRUNCH!” she finally choked out, her voice a strangled squawk. “My GUESTS! They’re expecting… croissants! Your croissants!”
Her carefully cultivated composure shattered completely. The elegant, important woman of moments before was gone, replaced by a petulant, enraged child in an expensive silk blouse.
“This is an OUTRAGE!” she shrieked, her voice cracking. She slammed her hand flat on the counter, rattling a small display of artisanal jams. “An absolute, unmitigated OUTRAGE! Do you know the trouble I went to? The waiting?” The irony of her complaining about waiting, after making everyone else wait and then trying to skip the line, was apparently lost on her.
Ben, to his eternal credit, simply stood there, his expression unchanged. He’d clearly dealt with his share of difficult customers, but Donna was aiming for the hall of fame.
“I demand to speak to your manager!” she bellowed.
“I am the acting manager on Saturdays, ma’am,” Ben replied, his voice still calm. “And unfortunately, I cannot magically produce more croissants once they’re sold out.”
This simple statement of fact seemed to push Donna over the edge. Her face contorted. For a wild second, I thought she might actually try to vault the counter. The ethical dilemma here was purely one of spectator sport: how much schadenfreude was too much? I was definitely tiptoeing along that line, and finding the view rather enjoyable. My own stress about Alex, about feeling unheard, seemed to momentarily lift, replaced by this vicarious, if slightly guilty, satisfaction.
The Croissant-less Retreat and a Taste of Victory
Donna let out a sound that was less a word and more a primal scream of thwarted entitlement. It was short, sharp, and full of an astonishing amount of fury. She looked around the bakery, perhaps hoping for a sympathetic face, but found only a few remaining customers (myself included) watching her with expressions ranging from mild alarm to poorly concealed amusement.
Realizing she was utterly defeated, that there were no croissants to be had, and that she was making an absolute spectacle of herself (again), she snatched her handbag from the counter.
“This is the worst service I have ever experienced!” she seethed, her voice trembling with rage. “I will be writing a review! I will be telling everyone!”
With one final, venomous glare that encompassed Ben, me, and the entire concept of a bakery that dared to run out of her desired pastry, she spun on her heel and stormed out. The bell above the door jangled violently, a punctuation mark on her furious exit. Her “very important brunch” was officially croissant-less.
A beat of stunned silence followed her departure.
Then, a young woman near the window let out a small giggle. Someone else chuckled. Soon, a wave of quiet, relieved laughter rippled through the remaining patrons. Even Ben allowed himself a small, tired smile.
“Next?” he called out, his voice remarkably cheerful.
I stepped forward, a wide grin spreading across my face. “One almond croissant, please, Ben,” I said. “And a large black coffee.”
He rang it up. “That’ll be six-fifty.”
As I paid, I caught his eye. “You handled that beautifully,” I told him sincerely.
He shrugged modestly. “Just another Saturday.”
I took my pastry and coffee to a small table by the window. The almond croissant was warm, the flakes shattering just so, the almond filling sweet and rich. It tasted, I had to admit, like victory. Small, petty, and deeply, deeply satisfying.
Outside, I saw Donna get into a large, black SUV, the kind that screams “I own the road.” She didn’t just get in; she yanked the door open, threw her handbag onto the passenger seat with considerable force, and then practically fell into the driver’s seat. Even from this distance, I could see her shoulders heaving.
She fumbled for her phone. Then, she started gesturing wildly as she spoke into it, her face a mask of fury. I could almost hear her, recounting her tale of woe, the universe conspiring against her and her vital brunch.
She slammed the car into gear and peeled away from the curb with a squeal of tires, leaving behind only the faint scent of exhaust fumes and the lingering, sweet aroma of my perfectly patient, well-earned almond croissant.
As she disappeared down the street, her phone still pressed to her ear, I saw her eyes, just for a second, in her rearview mirror. They were narrowed, still blazing. She wasn’t just defeated; she was plotting. Her parting shot hadn’t been empty. “Someone,” her furious glare had seemed to scream at the retreating bakery, “is going to pay for this. Dearly.”
The thought sent a small, unexpected shiver down my spine, briefly dimming the glow of my pastry triumph. This wasn’t over. Not for Donna, anyway. And maybe, just maybe, not for me either
About the Author
