Page 13 of Sorry, We're Closed

“That’s right, I need to get some practice in today.”

Marcus throws the bagels onto my plate and slides across the sriracha sauce, the sauce which follows us everywhere we go. It has a powerful punch yet has hints of garlic which pair perfectly. Marcus has always taught me to lather anything I eat with this sauce; I love it but not as much as he does.

“I’m going to watch the shop for the day so you can rehearse downstairs.”

“Are you sure? I can always rehearse this evening before we go?”

Marcus bends down and peers into the oven, cheers to himself and pulls out a tray of the crispiest, greasiest bacon known to man. He spins a pair of tongs around his finger as he layers half of the bacon onto my bagel and the other half onto his, which I didn’t even notice he has been assembling as I’ve been too busy salivating.

“Yes, I’m sure. Avory, I want you to focus on you for a change. Focus on your rehearsals, it’s not like we’re the busiest shop in town, like ever.”

He is right, our shop has always been like an abandoned saloon where you watch the doors swinging in the wind and the tumbleweed rolling by. It’s just extra income for us and if we find the right clientele, then it’s a massive help.

I hear sizzling in the frying pan and try my best to glance around Marcus’ hefty figure. “Hey Marc, are they runny?”

Marcus turns back and winks at me as he lifts the pan to show me. “I don’t know Avory; will I get hit on tonight?”

Yes. Always yes. We both smirk to ourselves as he carefully places an egg on each of our bagels, trying his absolute hardest not to burst the yolk because the mess this breakfast makes is the best part of it all. I pinch the edge of the empty bagel half to place on top before Marcus smacks my hand.

“How dare you think that this masterpiece of a breakfast is done? To think I sit here and call you my nephew.”

He, very dramatically, turns his head away from me, making his way into the fridge and commencing the worst fake crying I have ever heard. I struggle to hold back my laughter because that would just make this performance even harder to handle.

After many sniffles and wiping of his own tears, Marcus emerges from the fridge with two bright orange squares in his hand. The cheese. Not just any cheese, the rubbery orange squares which taste so good, yet you could ask me where it originated or what it was made from, but I would have no clue.

“Your cheese, my good sir.”

Marcus rips apart the plastic wrap and places the cheese, finishing it all off with my sriracha covered top.

“Ah yes! Thank you, dear chef!”

Marcus makes his way to the sofa, patting my back on the way as I get up and follow. We mindlessly scroll through whatever available TV channels there are before settling on a rock radio to serenade our digging in.

The crunch of the toasted bagel; the crispy bacon, the rich and dripping yolk, the gluey texture of cheese on my teeth, finishing with the warming bite of the sriracha – it’s all too much yet the perfect breakfast.

So many people would say they’ve eaten this before, or that it wasn’t at all anything special, but it is something special for Marcus and me. This is our breakfast for whenever we needed it. Every bite reigned a sense of comfort over me, it brought me back to being sat at Marcus’ dining table, ten-years-old and having no clue why I was suddenly living with my uncle.

Well, I knew full well why I had to leave what I had always known as home, but as the years went on, my understanding grew stronger, clearer. I understand now but back then, the confusion was too much.

I barely knew anything about my uncle because of his get up and go lifestyle, but all I knew and still know was that he made the most amazing breakfast bagels. So, that’s what Marcus did. For so long, he made these bagels whenever he had the chance and would sit with me, chat with me, bond with me even if he didn’t realise it.

He may have never planned to have me around for as long as I have been, but it’s clear that we are both forever grateful for each other, for moments like this.

Marcus’ eyes roll back as he finishes his last bite, moaning his appreciation for his own cooking as he swallows. He grabs both my cheeks and squeezes my cheeks inwards to my lip.

“Right, I’m off to the shop! Go and rehearse, do not worry about anything else! I’ll see you tonight, Bright Lights debut in Tetherton!”

Our first show, wherever we perform, is always unpredictable with how it will be received, but Tetherton loved us. There have been times in the past where people don’t understand our style of music or just blatantly don’t like us, but those feelings were not welcome in the crowds we faced last night.

Marcus massively underestimated the bar that we played at, because this wasn’t a few people using dancing as an excuse to disguise their stumbling, these crowds had solely come out to see this new band that had arrived. This was one of the biggest bars in Tetherton, and one of our biggest turn outs, too.

After every song we played, the people would applaud, cheer, beg for more, people actually danced with their partners or their friends, hand in hand and their feet in the air more than on the floor.

We were surprised with round after round of pints to shots from the ecstatic faces that met us afterwards, and the throbbing aches rippling from my temples to every muscle in my body is the reminder of that. It’s always worth it, though.

The sheer number of questions and wonderings bubble through my skull, the tipsy voices who asked them echoing so much louder than they ever did last night. Women latching themselves to Marcus’ arm flash whenever I close my eyes, yet he always ends the night alone.

His tactic: slide over a glass of something fancy and then slip away when they’re too busy indulging, and it somehow always works. He always jokes that while he could definitely do with some fun, he can’t be bothered to make her breakfast in bed the next day. I’m completely convinced that it’s never a joke. Thrice a year I get breakfast bagels, let alone the sheer number of women who are attracted to Marcus getting breakfast, too.

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