Entemann’s makes Madeleines.
I finally gave in and bought an ashtray. I was growing resentful of the makeshift one I’d been using, the one that wouldn’t lie flat, and so I went up the road and bought one.
My ersatz kid sister warned me it was going to rain but the house had begun to feel crowded and I didn’t mind the idea of an intermittent shower, so I went ahead anyway.
An older man with a silver ponytail down his back directed me toward them, I had found him in the camping section, near the public restrooms.
“I think we still have some,” he told me, foreshadowing his embarrassment if he proved to be wrong.
“I’m a dying breed,” I said, mirthlessly.
“That’s an unfortunate choice of words,” he murmured back. I shrugged.
He pointed to a small row of them, “a vast selection,” he said (or something to that effect), each one was 97 cents.
I resisted the urge to buy another tube of lipstick, even though I felt capitulated by some incendiary magnetic force to get one, “Gentleman Prefer Pink” had been lingering in my mind. My sponsor tells me it’s the instant gratification of it all.
I reminded myself of all the chocolate I had at home. My treasure trove of Almond Joys, of chocolate snack cakes, the recently bought fudge ice cream with walnuts. While walking back I saw a Swami, he was taking a stroll, his turban large and fitted over his head. And just as he passed, I saw a familiar car in my periphery.
My ears and heart began to hum.
Nightingale 
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