Saturdays at Miss Emily's Bakery
Marianne White
It was a cloudy Saturday.
She came out of Ms. Emily’s on 17th.
She was carrying small yellow sponge cakes for her grandparents.
Her hands wrapped in white silk gloves.
I looked at my own hands, filthy from coal dust.
Small wooden splinters sticking to them from the shovel resting on my shoulder.
She walked to her taxi cab, her black heels clicking on the pavement.
Her taxi cab pulled away and I returned to work.
It was a rainy Saturday.
The fat drops bounced off her blue umbrella as she walked to Ms. Emily’s.
She looked beautiful that day.
Emerald green hair pins, red lipstick, soft brown wool coat
The hem of her pale green dress peeked out the bottom.
Everything about her a bright contrast to the grey sky and my dirty overalls.
She hailed her cab, and I returned to work.
It was a bright Saturday.
She walked right past Ms. Emily’s.
Arm linked with her husband’s.
She had that fake smile, the kind I pictured her saving for fancy business luncheons.
The kind she would keep in an expensive jeweled box she received on her wedding day.
The kind she would never have if it was my job to make her happy.
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