She walks in ten minutes after they are scheduled to open, five minutes after he unlocks the door in response to my knocking. He has already ladled tomato and carrot bisque into the quart jar I brought with me and screwed the lid back on. She clocks in with her back to us lined up behind the counter. Her jeans can’t contain the top of her pink underwear or the soft flesh around her hips. She asks him if he needs her to bake anything. He says she can help the next person in line. She does not look at us. She places her hands against the sides of my jar of soup and yawns.