Closing for the Night

I checked every corner of my miniature restaurant before turning in. The dry leaf roof sat steady over the blue napkin ring, and inside my pan, the speck of yellow pollen rested safely alongside the thyme leaf and the bread crumb. Moving with tiny, quiet shuffles, I rolled an empty wooden matchstick across the linen cloth until it lay flat right in front of the entrance. It looked just like a proper closed sign. Leaning my round tummy against the matchstick, I gave a quiet nod into the dim lamplight. The kitchen is officially closed until morning.