eastenders

"Don't you toast that?" I ask politely. Admittedly, slightly intimidated. 

Her young face smacks of hard living. Her black kohl-ed eyes narrow as she sizes me up over the counter, her gold chains glinting in the early morning sun. I'm no mind reader but the way she holds the butter knife in her fist suggests there are other uses she could put it to.

"Grill's broke" 

She holds my eye for an uncomfortable nano-second before returning to attack the open bagel with a plastic gloved hand. As she slaps the butter across it with vigour, my eyes slide around the shop. The lino is cracked and peeling. I don't know if it started out that yellow. The counter is scratched and grey, the walls spattered in grease. A worn glass cabinet holds prepared fillings in metal trays. The egg mayo has grown a dry golden crust. It has seen better days. Clearly, I am regretting my breakfast-on-the-run decision but there are limited options at this end of Brick Lane at this time in the morning. 

A builder enters and the girl behind the counter does something unexpected: she smiles warmly back at him. She is a different woman. She cannot do enough for him - or his two mates following up the rear. Her eyes twinkle as they share a joke. When they get to the red-or-brown-sauce part of their complex order, she remembers I am still standing there. Her face drops. She flings the discarded bagel into a bag and barks a price at me. I hand over the money and she gives me change in her still gloved hand.

As I step outside, I wryly look back up at the shop sign "Hot Fresh Beigals" it reads. I look at my change, it's short. I can't be bothered to run back over there for a handful of shrapnel. Instead I step across the road and into a hair salon for my early appointment. Its a beautiful, kind-of-arty looking salon filled with beautiful, kind-of-arty looking people. One street across, it's another world. The contrast doesn't escape me.