He’d already been in a few times that day: First to use the bathroom, later for a cup of water with just a little ice. “What time do you close?” he asked over the water cup.
“We close up at 10 p.m.,” I said.
“And whatcha do with everything left over from here?” He pointed to the pastry case, grubby with fingerprints on the outside, where people had touched it to point at this muffin, that scone. There were a few congealed cheese croissants left, a bagel sandwich getting soggy with hummus and roasted peppers, a few two-day-old brownies.
“Normally we just chuck most of it,” I said. “Come back around about 10:15, though, and I’ll bag up what I got for ya, if you want it.”
“Nah,” he answered with a wave of his hand. “I’m good.” He crushed the plastic water cup in his hand. “See ya,” he…
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