“Ryan! Can you start closing up, please?” calls his mother from the washroom, her voice nearly drowned out by the whirring of the dishwasher. Ryan wipes his hands on the tea towel tucked into his apron, leaving streaks of turquoise royal icing on the fraying cotton and heads towards the door.

He adjusts his chef’s cap as he steps onto the shop floor, noting the time on the register reads 5:25 pm, just five minutes until closing. In front of a busy display of ribbons, candles and decorations, is a woman in her thirties with dark curly hair styled into loose curls over her shoulders. She has on a forest green, knee-length dress, with a black jacket, and a pair of black and white Adidas trainers. In one hand is a black laptop bag, and on her opposite shoulder is what Ryan recognizes as a Louie Vuitton handbag.

The woman reaches out to slip a large number one candle off its hook, adjusting her laptop bag, and holding it in the same hand. She fingers the variety of spools carefully, feeling the weight and texture of the ribbons, considering what she wants. Once the woman decides on a yellow and white checkered one she turns, only to freeze in surprise at the sight of Ryan. Their eyes meet, both not expecting to be confronted by such beauty on this quiet Monday afternoon.

“Hi,” Ryan says smiling, having quickly straightening himself. “Can I help you with that?”

“Oh, yes,” the woman says, looking equally as if she’s had to snap herself back to reality. She points down to a ribbon she just decided on. “May I please have a meter of this?”

“Sure,” Ryan says, grabbing the scissors from the pot next to the register and walking over to measure and cut the length. He rolls it up before asking if that’s all. The woman explains she needs to get a few more things, so Ryan offers to watch the candle and ribbon by the register, as well as her laptop bag. “I’m about to lock the door,” Ryan says, pointing to the clock which now reads 5:29. “No one will run off with it, and if I run off with it, at least you know where I work?”

The woman giggles at his lame joke, and it makes Ryan’s heart stutter.

The sound reminds Ryan of the clatter of fridge-cold chocolate chips being poured into a bowl of cookie dough; a sound he’s loved since childhood when he and his grandmother used to bake together, him standing on a chair at her kitchen counters, wearing an apron. Ryan always used to ‘accidentally’ tip one or two of the chocolate pieces onto the surface instead of the bowl, and he and his grandmother decided they weren’t destined for the cookies and should be eaten there and then. It was a sound of joy and happiness.