Chapter 6: What's On Mine

I opened the bakery at six on Sunday morning, because the dough didn't know I'd almost gotten married.

My bakery is a narrow shop on Girard Avenue with one long counter, two tables and an oven older than me.

I'd been up since four, shaping croissants with my hair still stiff from the wedding pins.

The first customer was a guy in a Phillies cap. He ordered a coffee and stared at the top of my head.

"So," he said. "What's over mine?"

His buddy behind him laughed into his fist.

"Two dollars," I said. "For the coffee."

By eight, there was a line, and half of it wasn't there for bread.

A girl filmed me sliding a tray of muffins into the case. A woman asked if I could check her husband, and she wasn't joking.

The counter girl wanted to cry. I sent her into the back to fold boxes.

At nine, my phone buzzed twice.

Two couples cancelled their wedding cakes for September. One of them didn't even bother to write a message, just the cancel button.

Sinead came in at ten with her hair in a high ponytail and murder on her face.

"I put a comment on every single post," she said. "Every one. I've been up all night. I'm going to get banned from the internet."

"Stop commenting," I said.

"Somebody has to say something!"

"I know." I wiped my hands on my apron. "Me."

I sat down at the corner table with my phone.

Rafferty's video was at five million views now. Somebody had made a remix with a laugh track.

I didn't write anything long. I didn't explain the strings. I didn't say I was sorry for anything.

I posted the two clips, uncut, exactly as the cameras recorded them, with the time stamps in the corners.

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