At seven I'm dressed.The alarm hasn't gone off.Manolo is on my pillow.I pull his glasses out from underneath.He rolls over and carries on sleeping.
I put out two little cups.I return one to the cupboard.In the shoe-shop bagthere's a loose screw.I take out the R from the barand lean it against the plates.It won't stand up.I put it between two cups.
Downstairs they're rolling upthe bakery shutter.The girl is sweeping outwards.I wait for her to finish.She asks if I'm looking forsomeone who starts later.
A coffee with milk.To have here.
I choose the table at the back.One leg is shorter.I fold a sugar wrapper.I leave it beside the cup.When the girl comes over,I ask her about the shifts.She doesn't understand what I mean.
“Nothing. Have you got toast?”She points to the blackboard.I read from top to bottom.I start at the top again.I hear a tray falland lift my head.
There's still coffee left.
The girl brings me the bread.The butter is hard.I wait, with the kniferesting against the plate.I try spreading one corner.The bread bendsunder the knife.
