Stepping into the zero waste shop is like going underwater, the sounds of traffic, children's play, and house renovations are muffled by the surrounding walls, even with the door wide open. There are very few people inside. It feels safe.
Today is Saturday, so the vegan pastries are out.
"Oh," I say. "I was hoping for the square one with the cream, and chocolate on top." I make the shape with my forefingers and thumbs. "They're my favourite."
"Ah, they were sold out immediately this morning," replies the shop assistant. "They're very popular. We've ordered some more next week."
"That's good," I say. "It's the best one."
"We can put one aside for you, if you like."
It feels like cheating to me. To hog a precious resource like that. A dishonesty I cannot get past.
"So they were gone by noon already? I don't get up early enough for that."
"One person came in and said, 'yes, I'll take all six!'"
"Well, that's a little mean, as well," I joke.
The shop assistant laughs. "Well, maybe he got them for his six grandchildren!"
"Fine," I concede. "If it means they got vegan pastries instead of non-vegan ones, I'll pay the price. It's just such a sweet taste of nostalgia, you know?"
And then, after picking a pastry with hazelnut filling that they recommend, I step back into the cacophony that is the outside.
