He left the building.
The awning came down on day ninety.
Rosalie watched from the bakery door with her arms folded and said, “Twenty years.
Took a man four hours to hang it and two men four minutes to take it down.”
“That’s about right,” I said.
“That’s about the ratio.”
Carmela came in March.
To the bakery, not the restaurant.
She stood at the counter and said, “I told you to let it go.”
“You did.”
“I’ve been thinking about why.”
“And?”
“Because it was easier for me if you did.
I’d have had to ask him about the bread.”
“That’s the whole answer,” I said.
“Everybody who says it.”
She buys the Christmas bread now.
From me.
With her own money.
She has never once asked for a card on it.
Brianna sent a note in April.
Three lines.
“I asked him what he told the hospital.
He said ‘nothing important.’
