Sourdough

by Robin Sloan

Here’s a thing I believe about people my age: we are the children of Hogwarts, and more than anything, we just want to be sorted.

“Secret spicy,” he whispered.

After twenty-two pages of funk versus death,

It regarded me with flat skepticism. (Goats only ever give side-eye.)

A printed banner said NEWBAGEL; it was surprisingly well designed.

HA

Scoping myself out in my stand-up mirror, I turned and gently twerked.

She refused him, and she told us she felt bad about it, but he was too short, and he couldn’t cook anything.

I felt the disorientation of a generous offer that in no way lines up with anything you want to do: like a promotion to senior alligator wrestler, or an all-expenses-paid trip to Gary, Indiana.

What I thought was: Well, every morning, I sacrifice a teeming civilization to the Clement Street war machine.