A Brown Paper Crinkle

A soft, buttery warmth drew me down the sidewalk to the little open patio of the neighborhood bakery. Beneath a black wrought-iron chair, a folded brown pastry bag had slipped onto the warm stone pavers. I paused in the cool shadow of the chair leg, watching its jagged top edge flutter softly. Stepping forward with deliberate care, I rested both paws against the pleat. It gave way with a deep, crisp crinkle, releasing the faint sweetness of toasted cinnamon. I nestled quietly against its sturdy crease, perfectly hidden from the busy street.