The first cold morning of fall, I opened the junk drawer for a battery and found them. Two hundred business cards, cream-colored, embossed in gold.
Marigold & Sons Artisan Bakery. My name. A phone number that doesn't work anymore.
The bakery never opened. I got the cards printed first, because that's the kind of person I was then. Someone who needed proof of a thing before I could believe it into existence.
I'd ordered them the same week I signed the lease on the little shop on Elm. Three months later I backed out. Told myself it was the money. It wasn't the money.
The thermostat in that shop was taped over with a note from the landlord: 'Do not touch. Call me.' I used to stand there in my coat, staring at that note, and something in me said the same thing. Do not touch. Call someone. Let someone else decide how warm your life gets.
I kept the cards all these years. Not as punishment. I think I kept them because they're the only proof I ever wanted something that badly.
I stood there in the kitchen, card in hand, and realized I didn't feel ashamed anymore. I felt like someone who'd finally learned to touch the thermostat herself.