Saturday Off
(Five o’clock in the morning, in the back room of a small bakery in York. The ovens are already hot.)
Megan: Paul? Can I ask you something?
Paul: At five in the morning? That’s never good.
Megan: It’s just a small request. Can I have next Saturday off?
Paul: Saturday? Unfortunately, no. It’s our busiest day. We sell twice as much bread.
Megan: I know. But my sister’s getting married at two o’clock.
Paul: And who’s going to replace you? It’s just you and me in this kitchen.
Megan: I’ve worked here for three years, Paul. I’ve never asked for a single Saturday.
(Paul puts a tray of loaves in the oven and thinks.)
Paul: Okay. Here’s my suggestion. Normally you work five till one, right?
Megan: Right. Eight hours.
Paul: On Saturday, start at three and finish at eleven. Same eight hours, same pay.
Megan: Three in the morning?
Paul: I start at three every day.
Megan: Every day? That’s crazy.
Paul: That’s bread. So, do you accept?
Megan: Fine. But I’m leaving at eleven. Not one minute later.
Paul: Half past ten. Tell your sister it’s my wedding present.