Angie Thompson did not work on Friday nights.

Danny Petzak knew this about her. Danny Petzak knew several things about Angie Thompson.

He knew she enjoyed crossword puzzles and snacking on pecans. He knew she had an aqua broach that she only wore with her matching mohair sweater. He knew the first thing she did when she arrived at the bakery every night was hang her denim jacket on a three-inch nail, located just beyond the swinging doors.

Danny knew all of Angie’s shirts were frayed at the cuff, that she rarely wore shoes behind the counter, that when the bakery wasn’t busy, she’d stare out the display window for hours at a time. He knew she watched reruns of Seinfeld every night at six-thirty, The Simpsons at seven, and Seinfeld again at seven-thirty. He knew Angie Thompson sang to herself when she thought no one else was listening, that she had difficulty lifting Hefty bags into the back alley dumpster, that once a week she’d wander across the street to the A-Plus Mini Market to buy a handful of Tootsie Rolls. 

Danny Petzak loved the way Angie’s hair swept across her shoulders like sable whenever she turned her head. He loved the faded green T-shirt she was wearing the first night he saw her. He loved the streaks of flour that stretched across her chest like claw marks. He loved the lavender scarf she always kept tied around her waist. He loved the earth-tone earrings that dangled round her cheeks like curtain hooks whenever she leaned forward.

But it wasn’t Angie’s hair that initially drew Danny in. It wasn’t the faded green T-shirt, or even the lavender scarf, for that matter. It was her eyes … eyes so blue and round and sad, Danny Petzak imagined he could dive deep inside of them; that he could swim beneath their thoughts; that he could dance amidst their dreams.

Day in and day out, visions of Angie Thompson spun like carousels in Danny Petzak’s head. The thought of her alone was enough to make him forget about his thesis, or his bills, or the long-standing depression that threatened to sabotage both of those things.

As the weeks gave way to months, and the unforgiving weather began to take hold, Angie Thompson slowly became the only worthwhile reason Danny Petzak had to comb his art-house hair, or leave his shoebox apartment.

Angie Thompson was the only worthwhile reason Danny Petzak had to walk the same tired route every Monday through Thursday. She was the only worthwhile reason he could ever imagine to step foot in an old-style bakery. She was the only worthwhile reason he had to purchase a medium cup of coffee and a copy of The New York Times.

Danny Petzak did not drink medium cups of coffee, and he did not he read The New York Times. Most people in the neighborhood knew this about him, and the majority of these people encouraged the young man to simply ask Angie out on a date.

But guys like Danny Petzak did not ask girls like Angie Thompson out on dates. Guys like Danny Petzak slowly worked themsleves into a girl’s favor by offering to bus a table, or sweep the sidewalk, or haul an industrial-sized Hefty bag out to the back-alley dumpster.

Most days, Danny would spend the entire afternoon looking forward to that anxious, fleeting moment he’d spend with Angie Thompson. He’d think of insightful things to say – a joke, perhaps; some comment about her hair, or a reference to the double-paned Danish display, which he knew Angie Thompson took tremendous pride in rearranging once a week.

Most nights, Angie would respond in kind, looking down at the register with a smile, as she pushed her hair behind her ears. Either that or she’d ignore the comment altogether by saying, “That’ll just be three dollars” in that gentle, lilting voice of hers.

But the best moment of Danny Petzak’s night – the moment that would stay with him hours after he returned home, poured his coffee in the sink, and placed The New York Times high atop of a broadsheet stack by the door – was the moment he went to leave the bakery every night. For it was at that moment – as Danny opened the door to leave – that a small bell overhead would jingle, prompting Angie Thompson to look up from her crossword puzzle, albeit briefly, and say “good night” to the back of Danny Petzak’s head.

Danny was already looking forward to that moment long before he reached the front entrance of the bakery this past Monday night. As he approached the front entrance, the first thing he noticed was a vacant, three-inch nail sticking out of the wall just beyond the swinging doors. On the near side of the counter stood a teenage boy in a long white apron, rubbing his hands together like a sculptor, as he prepared to rearrange the double-paned Danish display for the very first time.