Sourdough

The stall opened at six and by seven the good loaves were gone, which Mara knew, which was why she always came at half past. It made her, she supposed, a person who arrived after the good things. She had decided to stop minding that. The bread man was rearranging his crates and did not look up. "We have rye," he said. "We always have rye. Nobody loves the rye." "I am not nobody," Mara said, which was not true on a Tuesday, and was the closest she had come in months to flirting.