“I made little signs. To advertise the homemade oatmeal cookies,” said Ramona, taking out a pack of cigarettes.
She was looking directly at Devin after this pronouncement, as though waiting for him to make some kind of commendation or maybe an excited cheer.
“Yeah?” he finally said, after the silence in the quiet café had dragged out to an awkward length.
“So put them on the tables, genius.” Ramona gestured to a manila envelope on the counter. “Then use your suggestive selling.”
Devin picked up the envelope and emptied the placards out. They looked as homemade as the lumpy oatmeal cookies they were promoting: rectangular lengths of manila folders cut out and folded into little tents, with squiggly,...
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