Uncommon Criminal

by Cheap Wine Curious



Sundays are the Lord’s day. On this day I like to take it slow and easy, brew some coffee, scramble up some eggs and watch the political news programs with my loved ones. Sometimes I get a calling, to go out and buy baked goods for the hubby and kid. Today, as all slumbered, I snuck out to get some pastries and a New York Times. This is my Sunday church, to the chagrin of my parents who are probably praying for me right now as I sloth about unrepentant at the nearby Basque bakery. All was tranquil until…

“Ah-ha, I found you!” A familiar shrill voice assaulted me right there in boulangerie. Before I could turn my head to say “it’s too damn early for this,” the spry nymphette of a woman…uh, I think? Stepped into my path, blocking me from my view of the pain au chocolat behind glass case. I knew who it was. The poncho merchant carabinieri.
“Pardon me, do I know you?” I quizzically feigned.

“I think you do.”

We stared at each other like mimes in a nonexistent mirror. For like 15 uncomfortable seconds. Then it became a absurdly trying 30 second stare down. Until I flinched at the sudden movement of a shop girl, glassine paper in hand, reaching for the last pain au chocolat in the case. I lunged at her counter.

“Miss, miss I’m next and I’d like that pain au chocolat please.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t want to interrupt you and your sister so I served the next person in line. Sadly, that was our last chocolate croissant.”

And there stood “Brutus,” the hairy henchman to my doppelgänger nemesis now aka “sister.”With buttery flaky crust drifting like snowflakes from his bite to his beard,  the pain au chocolat disappeared before me, and he was still in line to pay! My visceral disgust could only be contained by the thin veil of civilization. If we were living in a lawless nomadic tribal culture, I would have roped him by the forearms and drug him for miles in the Gobi behind my Mongol pony. All this thought, anger, entirely fruitless and making me hungry. Flight reflexes triggered. Exit stage right.

As the shrill voices calling for the villagers to escort me to the stockade dithered in the distance of the bakery, I briskly strode past the bathrooms, out the rear entrance, cut through the back lot, took a sharp left at the bottle barn and scooted past the candle/wine shoppe. I saw my getaway bike and pedaled off to the overpriced deli where I would redirect my lust from pastry to green juice. This glorious Sunday, God has a grand plan for me, and he really wants me to stay away from pastry and lose those few stubborn 10 pounds.