29. ROMY
The following Sunday, I’m counting the till receipts and about to leave when the doorbell rings. “Sorry, but we’re…” I raise my head, expecting to find a customer who wants to take advantage of the fact that I forgot to lock the door, but it’s Alistair who is facing me. He’s wearing jeans, a plaid shirt that can be seen under his open jacket, and a grey woollen cap that brings out his eyes. These don’t contain their usual assurance. “Hi,” he said. “Hello, I’m out of bread and I’ve already put away all the cakes that were left,” I announced as if he were a regular customer. No, if he had been a customer, I would have been a bit nicer. “I didn’t come for that,” he replies, shoving his hands in his pockets. “If it’s for a quick shot in the kitchen, I’m sorry, but the store no longer
- Writer
