I can only assume that our policy of not selling food that's fallen on the floor is shared by other shops. Generally we stick by that policy because the public, she is a harsh mistress; she won't accept any sullied produce, and she makes it known. I, on the other hand, have much lower standards; I keeps what I finds on the floor at work, so we're never in need of bread at home. Not on my watch. I build up a neat little cache on the bench to take with me at the end of the day. Suzannah doesn't like my bread stash; Suzannah short and stout. She thinks it's dirty, heaven forbid. Sometimes my stockpile seems smaller than it was a minute before, and I quietly wonder if she's behind it all. She has the cold, dead eyes of a wastrel, after all.

Today I finally caught her in flagrante delicto, as it were. Where once there was a white cob, now there was nothing but the stench of treachery.
"What happened to my bread?"
"Oh shit, I sold it to a guy. I didn't realise it was yours."
Ooh, she's good, but I'm on to her. I don't say anything, though, because she knows that I know, and she knows that I know that she knows. It's a wonderful moment, so I say nothing. I go back to scrubbing the table.

A few minutes later, she saunters over and leans on the table, despite the fact that I'm still cleaning it. I don't get no respect, I tells you.
"I feel really bad about selling that bread to that guy now."
She speaks in a whisper, she's always so concerned about what the customers might hear. I speak loudly about artificial insemination whenever I get the opportunity.
"I've got more bread at home, it's OK."
"No, I don't mean that, it's because he was gay."
I'm still scrubbing, I haven't looked up at her. She's just a maroon blob in my peripheral vision. Why does she get a maroon apron and I'm stuck with this white one?
"Do you know him?"
"No."
"Then how do you know he's gay?"
"It's pretty obvious. He had an earring."
"Plenty of guys have earrings."
"Yeah, but it was dangly, and it had a jewel on it."
I hate these debates with her, she gets sulky when I'm right. After that I have to ask her a question about ear infections or something so she'll be normal again and I don't have to feel guilty.
"Still, an earring doesn't seem like enough to make him gay, even if it was flamboyant and colourful and whatnot."
"Maybe, but he was really clean, his hair was stylish, he was really polite, he was dressed nicely..."
"I dress nicely."
"Sure, Mr. bike pants."
I'm embarrassed now, so I start scrubbing harder. I glance at her and she's grinning widely, I must be blushing. I shrug and try to be nonchalant.
"All this is circumstantial evidence. I didn't see him gagging to get balls deep in my backside, did you?"
"Maybe he has a boyfriend, or maybe it's just that you're not good-looking."
Whatever.
"Alright, so what if he's gay? How does that make it worse that his bread was dirty?"
"Gay guys are clean, he wouldn't go serving dirty bread to his friends."

Maybe Queer Eye did something to my head, but I feel very inadequate because of that guy. Plus they get preferential treatment at bakeries. It just ain't fair.