The owner smokes outside, the smell of craving dispersing from his frame as he leans against the bollard. It tilts just so. It holds his sinewy body. His daughter plunks my change, the coins jingling sweetly. Every morning, he dusts the red awning with a broom of shredded newspapers, polishing his carotte rouge—his red sign that glows lightless. Always the same thwap-thwap of his sweeps, always a cigarette molded perfectly to his pink mouth. I like that he’s a man of good intentions. I like that he’s in it for himself.