Pie in the Sky

Or, The Girl in the Market

I don’t know her name, but she works at the restaurant in the neighborhood market where I eat breakfast three or four times a week.

My guess is she’s ten or eleven. 

She wears big, bright red ribbons in her shiny black hair and walks with exaggerated care when the grown-ups let her deliver a stack of tortillas or a plate of enchiladas to one of the table…