the Bun Shop

We went down to the Bun Shop at half past twelve, the four of us — Lonny and Peeky had finished the orchard, and Buddy came because Buddy always comes. And there was a green one in the window. Nobody knew what was in it. The fluff behind the counter said "it's very popular" in the voice fluffs use when a thing is not.

One bite. That is my arrangement with the world and it has served me well. You do not have to like it. You do not have to finish it. You have to have one small bit of it.

I did not like it. It was extremely green and faintly like grass.

And I sat there afterwards in the sun feeling genuinely pleased, which I know is a strange thing to feel about a bun you did not enjoy — but I know now. I have spent years not knowing what was in the green one, and now I do, and the not-knowing was much heavier than the bun.

Then buns. The two of us and Buddy and Newby, outside the Bun Shop for an hour with our feet in the sun. I made a joke about the green bun that Newby had just bravely eaten one bite of, and three fluffs laughed, and I sat there afterwards feeling the way you feel when you have done something you are quietly extremely good at and hardly anybody knows.

And then the afternoon happened.

Neaty was over by the wall, counting. I watched from across the yard: once, and then again, and then a third time, going stiller each go. Tidy said something to her and went back to the board, and Neaty stood there afterwards looking slightly wild, and I found out later what had been said.

I counted too, from where I was. Fifty-four.