Every Secret Thing

12.

The last customer of the day at the Bagel Barn was a tapper. She leaned forward from the waist, so she was eye level with the wire baskets of bagels, and hit the glass with her index finger the way a kid plink-plink-plinks the same key on a piano. Her nails were manicured-a tapper’s nails tended to be manicured-but relatively short, with clear polish, and Ro

“Two sesame-no, three sesame, two poppies.” Tap, tap, tap. “Are the sunflower seed good? No? Yes? Okay, four plain, two sun-dried tomato.” Tap, tap, tap. “How many is that?”

“Eleven,” Ro

“Do you do thirteen for the price of a dozen?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Everyone else does.”

Ro

“It’s the end of the day,” the tapper wheedled. “You’re just going to end up throwing these away.”

“I’m not allowed, ma’am. I’m sorry.”

The woman continued to tap. It was almost as if the sound were part of her thinking process, as if she needed the tick-tick noise of her finger to get her brain to work.

Such end-of-the-shift customers were common on Saturdays, when people always seemed surprised by the 3 P.M. closing. The rest of the week, Ro

For all that, and despite the crummy pay and early morning hours, Ro

The best thing, in Ro

Yet there were always a few people who expected to be the exceptions, who asked for things they couldn’t have. Can I get that on whole wheat? No. Do you have French bread? No. Do you have focaccia? Ro

Ro

Which was fu

“But I’m talking only on the other side of the counter,” she told Ro

Saturdays were slow at this Bagel Barn. On weekends, Ro

Ro

“I won’t have time to go to the grocery store,” the woman said. “So I might as well get some cream cheese here.”

“The spreads are in the refrigerator case on the far wall,” Ro

The woman looked confused and glanced around, as if the refrigerator case were hard to find. Once she located it, she ran to it as if every moment counted. She pushed the prepacks around, disrupting the careful order that Ro

“But I need that-oh, the whatchamacallit, the special one.”

“Salmon spread?” Ro

“No, no, that’s not it.”

“Sun-dried tomato?”

“No,” the woman said, growing impatient, as if Ro

“Artichoke-parmesan?”

“Yes, that’s it.” She came back to the counter, carrying a plain and a veggie-lite. “Do you have any?”

“I can scoop some out for you,” Clarice said, using the sweet-as-pie voice that Ro