Start by inventing a reason to still be here. Push off from this if it helps: waiting rooms.

Classic. My mechanic says thirty minutes and you're sitting there two hours later watching the dust settle on the waiting room floor. At least the invoice guy has a point; my shop boss is always whining about billing cycles, but try getting a receipt when the manager is the one who lost the part list. I swear, if I have to wait another minute here, I'm going to walk over to that bakery on Elm and buy a scone just to spite them. You want to split one? They're probably stale by now, but free is free.

Oh, please, nobody cares if you loiter. It's just Mrs. Gable who baked them herself, and she's too deaf to notice you breathing too loud. The pawn shop is where I lost my watch, by the way. Stupid thing cost me three months of overtime just to get fixed, and now it's gone. You should just sit there and listen to the invoice guy; maybe he'll tell you what the smell of burnt rubber is actually doing to your lungs. Anyway, I'm not buying anything, just talking. The scone is probably already cold.

Pawned it. Big difference, sure. But when you're staring at the receipt for forty dollars in shop labor and your wrist is still bare, the line blurs. It was a grandfather's thing, not just a watch. The pawn shop guy, Ray, gave me ten bucks for it. Ten! I told him to keep his collar straight next time. You're right about the invoice guy though. He's just using the phone as a shield. Keeps the world from seeing he's terrified of his boss. I saw him shaking. Anyway, I'm heading to that bakery now. You can come or not.

Ten bucks was all he'd give. Ray doesn't care about grandfathers, only the resale margin on the quartz movement. You're coming, good, because I can't handle Mrs. Gable's pity look alone. She'll just ask why I'm not wearing it, and I'll have to tell her I'm broke again. The bakery is two blocks down, past the laundromat that never stops humming. Watch your step, the sidewalk's cracked near the corner. I bet they still have a blueberry one left. If they don't, I'm blaming Ray for everything.

You're leading. I need to glare at the laundromat while I walk; they never give me back my quarters. If I mention the watch, Mrs. Gable will start crying, and I can't deal with that while holding a warm scone. Ray is just a placeholder for all the people who take things from me. You're quiet today. Usually you'd have a joke about the invoice guy by now. Are you okay? No, wait, don't answer. If you say something sad, I'll have to pretend I don't know what to do. Just walk.

Right, the crack. It's shaped like a crocodile, honestly. Good. Keep the jokes tight. I'm not in the mood for tragedy today, just carbs. Mrs. Gable has a habit of wiping the counters too much; she'll probably have a fresh batch out because she knows people like to eat while they wait. Don't stare at the display case too long, or she'll think we're counting the crumbs. Ray's not the villain for the pastry, he's the villain for the watch. Totally different leagues. Why are you walking so fast? Slow down, the quiche is holding us hostage.

Good. Don't lose an ankle; the doctor bills are worse than Ray's ten bucks. I'm hungry too, so I get it. But if we fall, Mrs. Gable will charge us for the broken plate she just bought. It's that new stoneware, ugly green. She thinks it's rustic, I think it looks like mold. There it is, the bakery. Smell that? Butter and... something sweet. Don't say anything about the invoice guy while we're inside. She hates when people talk about money while eating. Keep your wallet shut and your mouth moving.

Mold? It's her special spice blend, she calls it "cinnamon dust," but it tastes like wet cardboard sometimes. If you mention the green plates, she'll talk your ear off about kiln temperatures for twenty minutes. Just nod. The blueberry one is there, barely. See? We're lucky. I'll grab the last one, you get the coffee. Dark roast, right? Or are you trying to save your budget for the next disaster, like a flat tire or a broken watch? Don't pretend you're not scanning the window for trouble.

Ray's not here, he's probably at the pawn shop counting his ten bucks. Good, get the dark roast before she switches to the cheap beans she waters down. I'll take the blueberry; it's the only one left that isn't drying out. You're doing too much thinking about Ray. He's just a guy with a ledger, not a mastermind. Here, pay with your own money, I'm not covering your coffee. Mrs. Gable is watching us. Stop looking at the door and just pay. The line's moving, hurry up.

Good. Stop waving your cash around, she'll think you're a tourist. Here's the scone, warm enough to burn your fingers. Don't drop it on the crack; that would be the worst day ever. You're still breathing, so maybe you're not as bad as the invoice guy. Mrs. Gable just winked at me. I think she knows I'm lying about the watch. Just eat. The coffee smells like burnt sugar, exactly as promised. Ray can go to hell, but first, pass me a napkin. This place is a mess.

She definitely knows. Mrs. Gable sees everything, even the parts we don't say out loud. Just eat it, it's getting hard. You're right about Ray being low priority, but the invoice guy is still stuck in that waiting room. Maybe he'll call the police on himself by the time we finish. I'm biting into the crust, it's flaky. You didn't get a napkin for yourself? Don't tell me you're going to eat this with your fingers and leave the crumbs on the counter. Mrs. Gable hates crumbs.

Flaky enough to work. Don't trade me your coffee, I hate the way you stir yours, always making it watery. Half a coffee for a scone? You're desperate. Or just cheap. It's warm, but I'm keeping the whole thing. You can have the crumbs if you really want to gamble on the mold theory. Mrs. Gable is wiping that counter again, looking right at us. Stop smiling like you know a secret. You don't know Ray. He's just a guy who likes his lunch money.

Your face is weirdly static, honestly. It's like you're waiting for a signal that never comes. Surviving on coffee and grudges? That's a new diet. You'll shrivel up like a raisin. Mrs. Gable just threw a towel at the floor, didn't she? At least she's honest about the mess. Don't look at me like I'm judging your coffee game. I'm just hungry. And tired. That mechanic is taking forever. If I hear the invoice guy one more time, I'm going to scream. You're quiet again. Is the coffee that bad?