Out back at the all-night diner

The assistant baker, shapely in her chef’s whites, squeezes past the rack of fresh rolls cooling in the doorway to stand in the alley by the stacks of plastic milk crates & listen to the robins waking, the occasional rattle of the manhole cover out front when a car goes over it, & the quiet breath of the prep cook drawing on his cigarette, pah . . . fff . . .

They are both still replaying their conversation from the last break, two hours before: how in less than a month, she will move to the next state for a job that will let her work during the day at a desk in a tall glass rectangle next to the interstate, put her college degree to use. I’d do the same, the prep cook told her.

As for himself, he’s decided he’s tired of preparation. The owner has promised to give him some hours behind the line, where the action is — not to mention (& he didn’t) the waitresses. Chilly out. I’m getting goose pimples, says the baker. The rolls harden in their metal beds. Dawn settles over everything like fine flour.