Ah, the dreaded words. No matter where he is in the shop, no matter what he's doing, Sal will hear them, and this time is no exception. The kitchen door swings open, and there he is: a stocky middle-aged man with thinning grey hair and flour permanently whitening his fingers. He'd look friendly, grandfatherly even, if it weren't for his near constant scowl, which only ever deepens when he looks at me.
