"What did he say?"
"That it was exactly right." He pulled containers out of the bag. "I was crushed for him."
He went to the second cabinet for bowls. He got the right one on the first try.
We ate standing. Sully had over-ordered. Randolph always sent him home with an extra container. "There's a woman who comes in every Wednesday," he said. "Orders a vodka soda every time. Doesn't matter what I put in front of her. I tried a margarita once, just set it down, and I told her it was on me. She slid it back. Not rude about it. Just—no."
He picked up his fork. "Tomasz watched the whole thing and told me afterward that some people already know what they want, and the best thing you can do is get out of the way. He said I'd been in the job two years and still hadn't learned to leave a good order alone."
I listened and ate and watched him.
The stories were right. The pace was off. He was still rushing. He didn't leave gaps to breathe between them.
Sully slid the rice container toward me.
"New guy on the Thursday rotation," he said. "Bartender. Tomasz trained him. Good instincts but he over-explains. I didthat when I started. Nora told me nobody wants a lecture when they're thirsty."
"Is she right?"
"She's always right. He'll get there."
The story ended, and nothing followed it. I watched him for a few seconds.
"You seem tired," I said.
He looked up and laughed. "I'm fine. There was a guy last night who fell asleep at the bar. It wasn't a drift. He had his head on his arms, fully committed. I couldn't decide whether waking him was the kind thing or the cruel one."
"What did you do?"
"After ten minutes, he woke himself up, ordered water, and asked me not to tell anyone." Sully slurped a long noodle. "I told him my policy was confidentiality for anyone who kept the stool warm."
He finished his bowl, and I collected the containers. When I returned, he was looking at the lamp in the corner.
"I should let you sleep," he said.
"You don't have to."
He picked up his coat from the chair back and zipped it. "Nora's covering my Thursday. I'm taking Friday instead—different crowd, different rhythm. It's a schedule thing."
"Okay," I said.
He crossed the room, and I met him halfway. The hug was right, arms solid and weight pressed into me, but it was brief. He kissed me lip on lip and pulled back.
There wasn't one more thing.
"Goodnight, Pratt."
"Goodnight."
I rinsed the bowls and wiped the counter, then moved the chairs back. I hung the dishcloth on its hook before turning off the kitchen light. The corner lamp stayed on.
In my bedroom, I sat on the edge of the bed.
After a while, I got up and picked up the blanket from by the baseboard. I laid it flat on the hardwood, one fold back at the top. I lay down on my back and looked at the ceiling.
It wasn't the night before a game, but I needed the floor.
I looked at the ceiling for a long time. The wall remained quiet.
