The confectioner is a tall slim man with a hooked nose. His eyes are covered by the grey hair that has slipped out of the ribbon he uses to tie it back while he works and his gnarled hands turn round and round his gold bowl as he stirs his infamous chocolate. He counts quietly to himself in an even measured tone. One hundred three, one hundred four, one hundred five-six-seven….
I am surprised to see that he is wearing a tailored suit with a gardenia tucked into the lapel. It is a spotless white, it’s petals crisp and sharp as the knives hanging on the wall behind him. Even his spoon gleams sharply under the florescent lights.
“That’s a brave fashion statement.” I shift uncomfortably, wrinkling my nose against the tangy sweet odour of the shop.
He doesn’t even look up, but I feel his next words are pointed at me specifically.
“Better to be brave than boring.” One hundred thirty-three, thirty-four, thirty-five-six-seven….
I slip my resume onto the counter. The corner is folded up from where it was pinched in my backpack, as if I wasn’t already out of my depth. “I’m looking for a job.”
“I’m not looking for help.” He pours the contents of the bowl into a mold in one clean movement and sets a timer.
My hands find their way into the pockets of my jeans. “Suit yourself.”
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