Icarus.

1-sidewalk cracks

Tufts of lively grass grew messily within the eroding canyons between each aging square of sidewalk. Faint memories of my childhood summers, in which I spent hours skipping carefully around these craters as to not break my mothers back culminate at the back of my mind. I smile in reminiscence as I feel my sneakers rubber sole mold to the uneven concrete. It is autumn in Portland Maine, our rainiest season, and the dreary sky dims with each passing minute. I knew it was a mistake to leave the house without a hooded jacket, but before I'd gone, the day was clear and sunny, without a cloud in sight.I should have known better not to trust Northeastern weather.

I first felt a drop of rain hit my temple, then evaporate so quickly I'd question whether it was ever there. Then it wetted my hairline, and I felt the thick puddle soak into my scalp. I cursed to myself as all at once, I was bombarded by the fierce storms of October off the Atlantic Ocean. To protect myself from the ruthless attack, I sprinted to the cloth canopies overhanging store fronts on the edges of the cobblestone streets. The bakery was only a few more blocks away, and Alfred would hopefully understand that I'd gotten caught up in the center of a storm. At least, I prayed he would forgive me. I couldn't afford to lose this job, not before I had to leave for college.I needed the money, and i had grown to adore the regular customers that politely accompanied me every day.

Most of them were elderly, had been loyal patrons to the sweets shop sense they were children. Some however where middle aged parent with young kids of their own, who let them lead the way into our alluring shop.

My hair was drenched in gutter water by the time i finally arrived. An irritated Alfred waited behind the counter as I made my entrance through the heavy, wooden, and loudly creaking door. yy wet sneakers squeaking obnoxiously with each step, I made my way as quickly as possible to replace where my boss stood, being sure to knot my white apron tightly around my waste.

"You're late," Alfred snarled bitterly.

"I'm so sorry, I got caught up in the rain, and there was no one to drive me here."

"You're mom wasn't home?" He questioned, reaching into the glass display and pulling out four ribbon cladden cannolis.

"Mom was..." I pause, not quite knowing how to phrase th rather vulgar expression in the company of several elderly ladies, whom flocked enthusiastically around the register. "Preoccupied." I State, hoping my description was enough to satisfy Al. Seeming to have been sufficient, Al gives me a curt nod before leaving me to tend to the growing crowd of customers while he checked on the baking goods in the back room.

"Mrs. Janis, how can I help you?" I chirp to the sweet old lady.

"I've just come for my daily coffee," she smiles, her dark sunglasses slipping down her dimpled cheeks, partially displaying the milky white irises behind them. Every day, Mrs. Janis walked a quarter mile to our bakery, bought a coffee and treat of her choice, then retreated back, all of which she perused with no eyesight. I would welcome her to the bakery a thousand times, meet her great grand babies, and become friendly enough to joke of her clashing wardrobe pallets, but I would never learn how Mrs. Janis went blind.

The day was busy. Hundreds of local customers, lost tourists, and hungry labor men came running through our shop, whether to buy their daily breakfast, request directions and the key to our bathroom, or simply escape the rain. Unfortunately for me though, with them they left the imprint of their muddy, wet shoes across our already stained tile floors, and in the late afternoon, as our shop bordered its closing hour, I was left mopping up the last remains of today's business, while Al cleaned the stoves in preparation for tomorrow. I was ready to go home to my warm bed and fresh pajamas, the clean linen sheets I had waiting for me in the dryer, when the silence of our baron bakery was cut by the fluttering of the door's welcoming bell. I looked up, keys in my hand, ready to lock that same entrance.

There stood a man that I hadn't yet met, with hazel hair and a stone chiseled jaw. He walked as though he stood atop a swaying beam, ascended miles into an ominous thunder stricken sky. The shades covering his eyes were even darker than Mrs. Janises; black as a forest's night. As he leaned against the glass cabinet, I pulled my lip between my teeth and prayed at his towering height, we would not shatter the display beneath his crushing elbows.

"Please don't lean on the glass, sir," I request before he could utter an order. "I just got done scrubbing it."

He pulls away slowly, dazed at my demand, then with a smirk written over his slim cherry lips, he folds over, and huffs a deep, hot breath onto the shiny surface. With his middle finger, he draws a cross-eyed and partially lopsided smile. I recognize that grin from the graphic T's my older brother sports, but I couldn't remember the band's name for the life of me.

"Do you have a problem, sir?" I snap impatiently, offended by his lack of respect.

"Oh yeah, big one. Her name is vodka, and this time she's given me a pounding headache," he lazily pulls of his sun glasses, tucking them into the collar of his maroon v-neck. His opals are as read as wine, no doubt from the alcohol he must have spent all night and well into this morning consuming. I roll my eyes at his foolishness.

"What do you want?" I spit as he pushes his weight onto the same counter I'd been leaning across. I move back abruptly, seconds before our faces could come into contact.

"What do you usually have to ward off a hangover?" He smirks, using his eyelids as shade to the midday sunlight.

"I'm seventeen, sir."

He tilts his head curiously, as though I'd just spoken pig-Latin. "I'm underage, it would be illegal for me to drink."

He chuckles. "Yeah, alright. I'll have some coffee and a donut," he tells me, unspecifically.

"Black?" I question, slightly disgusted.

"Yeah," he nods, noticing my tone. "Is that alright?"

"I guess so," I shrug, walking towards the generously sized drip coffee pot, sizzling with the boiling liquid. "That's just kinda bitter."

"Alright," he agrees. "What do you suggest?"

"Maybe some sugar?"

"Whatever you think's best," he smirks once again, and I reach into the drawer below me to pull out a box of it, Immediately loading the drink as I would my own.

"Any kinda donut?" I ask him, taking out some wrapping to pick up the pastry with.

He doesn't answer, which I assume is a "yes," and reach for one of the fritters that I know is on the verge of going stale. My boss encourages us not to waste the baked goods, and I often just end up taking home the expired sweets that we weren't able to sell.

"That'll be $2.12 please," I tell him, and he slowly opens his drooping eyelids, while simultaneously fishing a brown leather wallet from the back pocket of his tight black jeans.

"Keep the change" he mumbles, handing over a five dollar bill and I grin.

"Thank you, sir!" I exclaim, eyes bright. At this point, every contribution to my college savings count.

He takes one last long look before turning on his heel and sauntering back towards the entrance. "Sorry sir, but I never caught your name," I called before he could depart.

"Harry," he huffs, and the heavy wooden door swings shut behind him.