End of the ordinary
Exceptional days point to the truth about each and every day
Andrée Seu
April 28, 2007

There is something insidious about the bakery. It's on my route when Spider and I take our 6 a.m. constitutional, and I spot its warmly lit window on Keswick and Mt. Carmel from a block away. Daryl's pastry shop speaks to me thusly: "There now, Andrée, I'm here. As always. And everything is all right. Those silly notions you had on your bed last night, about battles to the death in unseen spheres, and all your pretty tales, don't they seem silly by the morning's light."

Except on Mondays. Mondays are mildly disturbing: Daryl's is closed then, and all is not right with the world. The problem is that the closing of one day is the harbinger of the closing of all days. A time will come when Daryl (who has got to be 70) will bake her last chocolate croissant and sell the business. Perhaps the Paris salon next door that's had its covetous eye on more square footage will finally prevail. the rest