So many goodies on display; Jared mused on the irony that he could now afford all the baked goods he’d coveted as a tot but couldn’t afford calories that his younger self would have burned through in an afternoon.

The person behind the bakery counter, who looked like they had been regularly tucking into their own stock for decades, sliced Jared’s rye bread and bagged it.

“There’s only one thing I want to ask you,” the baker said after the till rang up the amount.

“Oh?” Jared expected a question about his Døzer t-shirt (yes, they’re a real band), his out of town status (yes, he wasn’t from around here, at least not anymore), or the sunglasses on his brow (yes, they’re real Ray-Bans, a lucky thrift store find).

“How do you fit into those skinny jeans?” the baker asked instead. He smiled, as if expecting to hear some kind of secret about how to fit his own well-rounded frame into a pair of the same.

How best to handle such a query? The answer to that, as everything, was sarcasm. “Well, you see, I actually weigh 230 lbs but through a combination of lamaze and Satanism I’m able to fit into these,” Jared drawled. “Don’t touch them or even look too hard, as you might upset the delicate balance and be injured by high-speed denim shrapnel.”

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