By Ben Greenman / @2019
From future collection.
From future collection.
These bakers are all going to die. The one with glasses, the one without. The one who runs fast, the one who drives. The one with the worried face, the one who always manages to assume an air of preternatural calm. The tall, the short, the strong, the weak, the hopeful and hopeless alike. The inspector will come in the morning and pick up a stale loaf from the ground where it has fallen. Hard as a rock in his hand. He’ll set it back down—investigators and photographers will follow—and make for the back room, but he knows what he’ll find before he gets there. Dead bakers, lined up neatly, hats white, shirts white, laundry-fresh, free at last.
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