Moose came in with lunch, a croissant in right hand and a tube of Italian salami in his left.
Bucky got the salami.
“What’s that, one of them croosants?” Bucky said.
“Yep,” said Moose.
It was a predictably typical day on Butler Street in Lawrenceville, at least inside Palermo’s shoe and athletic repair, where the only dissonant vibe arose from the fact that this predictably typical day, Wednesday, was one of the last.
“This will all be gone,” said Moose as though he were standing in a museum, which is only about as true as can be.