Number Thirty-Two

It is Saturday. It is six in the morning, and the sky is dark. You are on Pike Street, in Seattle.

Olsen’s Bakery makes its cinnamon rolls one Saturday a month. Today is that Saturday.

You are early. But the line is long. It goes past the bank and around the corner. You count the people: one, two, three… thirty-one. You are number thirty-two.

Olsen’s makes forty rolls. Only forty. You are cold, and you hope.

At seven o’clock you are at the door. The rolls are hot and brown.

“How many?” the woman asks.

“Two, please,” you say.

“I have one,” she says.

You take it. Behind you, a small boy looks at your bag. He is number thirty-three.

“Half for you,” you say.

He eats his half in four seconds. You eat your half slowly, all the way home. Next month, you’ll be here at five.