Bread. The baker cuts chunks from the amoeba dough that’s spreading across the counter. It is sticky in his hands, protesting against its separation onto the kneading board. By the till there’s a display of loaves, shiny like glazed pots. I grip the largest and pass it to the assistant who swaddles it in tissue. I carry the bread like a babe in my arms, its heat warming my belly and I walk back home.
This 75-word story was published by Paragraph Planet 22 May 2012