I can’t remember the last time anyone’s ever bought adozenof my pastries at once.
Granted, these aren’tmypastries.
They’re like some sort of gift from the heavens. These cannot be real. They cannot.
And yet, somehow, impossibly, they are.
And as soon as that customer finishes her purchase and heads back out the door, I can’t help but sample another one. You know. Gotta make sure it’s not poisoned or something. It’s my civic duty as shop owner.
Damn.
They’re not just the best pastries I’ve ever tasted, they’re the bestanythingI’ve ever tasted.
So I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised when the door opens again a little while later and two more customers walk in.
“Hey,” says the first. “I heard this is where the amazing pastries came from.”
And that’s when I know: Somehow, whatever I do, I’ve got to get more of them.
Ziros
I’m covered in flour.
I wasn’t gonna do it.
But…
But my human was working so hard, and I kept thinking she’d walk back into the kitchen any minute.
Any minute, she’d open that door and discover me.
She’d hear the racket I was making.
But no.
Damn, humans sure are oblivious.
And then she left.
I laugh, shaking my head as I sit on the edge of the rooftop, watching her apartment window from across the way.
She didn’t even notice I was there all night.
I should go.
I’m not ready yet to return, not stable enough to be around her safely.
A part of me hates myself for wasting my visit without seeing her, but I did leave her a little surprise.
I wonder what she’ll think when she finds it.
You
You groan, rolling out of bed in the early afternoon, groggy asever after a late night shift.
What day is it?
That’s right: It’s Monday.
