Bread and Jazz on Sunday

On Sunday mornings, the bakery near my apartment props its door open and plays jazz records. The line usually runs out onto the sidewalk.

Nobody seems to mind waiting. People sway a little to Coltrane. Dogs sit politely, hoping for crumbs. Strangers chat about whether the sourdough or the rye is better this week. An old man with a cane taps along on the bench outside and tells anyone who'll listen about seeing Ella Fitzgerald live in 1962.

I get a baguette and an almond croissant, and I eat the croissant on the walk home, which is a sacred rule. By the time I'm back, I'm covered in flakes and humming.

It's the best twenty minutes of my week, and it costs about seven dollars.