Before the morning sun was up, and when the winter’s cold still bit into the darkness of the district, I made my way towards the deli at the end of the street and round the corner towards the bakery. Work had already started on the new Mich Café that Marie told me about a few weeks ago. From the looks of it, it would be spectacular. Evenings would never be as quiet here again.
The baker, Gustav, is a wonderful gentleman. Stocky built and a heart of gold, he recently opened shop in the district and gathered a cult following in a relatively short time. Though he was not there that morning, his minions have prepared everything for me: Croissants, bagels, sourdough, hot-cross buns, viennoiserie, and panettone, though I would never be particularly fond of raisins. But Marie liked them.
By the time I finished with nonsensical business transactions (I would always have to spend an inordinate amount of time insisting to pay for the bread), the streets were slightly warmer and the sun was breathing life into the district. Some early risers were already on their way to work. Slightly envious, but grateful to what I have, I made my way back to my building.
Marie was already eating bagels.