A Crisp Crust

I dropped down from the bread crate right as a customer snapped off the tip of a warm baguette outside the bakery door. A golden, crackling crust fragment the size of my chest tumbled straight down to the stone step. I planted my boots firmly on the concrete, caught the falling shard against my chest with both hands, and absorbed the momentum into a steady low squat. The toasted crust was blistering hot, fragrant with yeast and browned flour. Bracing my back against the wall, I snapped off a jagged bite. Pure, crunchy fuel.