The two women change their shoes. Helen asks Darlene why she is so “different” with Bill. “Don’t you like him?”

“Jerky-balls? He’s no trouble, really. He’s not someone I feel real close ta, that’s for sure. Just someone I work with.”

Helen says, “I like it when he sings.”

“He sings?”

“Sure. He sings all the time. You just don’t listen.”

“He doesn’t sing loud enough for me to hear.”

“He sings sad songs. You might not be interested.”

“God forbid.”

“Kind’a cute, for a man his age.”

“Too cute, if you ask me. Seems to be holding back something, not let’n on what he really thinks.”

“Business seems to be a little better.”

“Thank God for that,” Darlene says and then laughs as she adds, “Maybe it’s all that espresso we’ve been selling.”

A wall fan in the back room sucks out warm air with noisy efficiency. Helen and Darlene hang their aprons on wooden pegs next to the door to the toilet. Bill waits at the front door of the shop and locks up after they go out. They disappear down the sidewalk, talking, Darlene’s aqua-painted toenails peeking out of white-strapped sandals, Helen in brown-leather clogs.

Harry wastes no time. “I’m trying to make some changes,” he says. “I got myself a man to bake on the night shift — he’ll let me know for sure in a couple days.”

Again? Bill thinks.

“The thing is, how do you feel about coming in at three instead of four and going home at eleven instead of twelve, or maybe even doing two-to-ten?”

“Two-to-ten is fine with me,” Bill says, with relief, knowing that, this time, his number is not on the board. Harry has just given him a chance to be home every night before his wife goes to sleep.

“Good,” Harry says. “Monday next, maybe. Don’t say anything to anybody. I’m giving Darlene two weeks notice.”

“Darlene?”

Harry turns pink. “Let me tell you something,” he says, “most of the time she’s okay. But she’s got an attitude I never liked.”

“It used to be called lack of enthusiasm; now they call it negative energy,” Bill offers.

“Fine. Do they have a fancy word for crook? I found out she’s had her hand in the cash register. I didn’t say anything. Huge sums are not involved here. But she’s going — and, the way I feel, it’s better I do it than if the Department of Health comes in here and… well, to my mind she stinks up the place, is what I’m trying to say. Another thing, I can’t work night and day anymore. I’ll come in at six in the morning and go home at eight at night, if I have to, but no more graveyard shifts.”