By eight the pretzel stall had already set out a row of pocket combs no bigger than a thumbnail. The dough sat in a basket like a waiting choir, each twist holding still while the salt was combed into place, then glancing toward the butter as if asking whether the coat was even.
We asked at the kiosk. A man with a paper bag said the loops will not close until the butter has nodded. A girl in the queue whispered that the smallest pretzel asked for one more stroke at the left curve. In the stall book someone had written: Kindly do not break the ring. It is still saying thank you to the salt.
The next morning the same regular came back and found a comb left on the counter, a little dusty with crystals, as if it had saved the first tidy pass for him.