A Crisp Crust

I shuffled out from beneath the checkout counter into the warm bakery corner. A round loaf of sourdough sat perched on a low tilted shelf, wrapped tightly in crinkly clear cellophane. I stopped, blinking up at its bumpy golden top. Still cradling my golden bag with one arm, I reached out and tapped the stiff cellophane with two fingers. Snap. Then I gently pressed against the brown crust underneath. A tiny, muffled splintering crunch. Much deeper than my little round snacks. I rested against the wooden rim of the tray to listen, watching the morning dust motes drift down from the ceiling.