“I am.”
Joey straightened the napkin dispenser. “The booth is available. I just wanted to confirm you were aware of that.”
There was a slight pause before Bernie said, “I’m aware, Joey.”
“Okay. Good.” Another pause. Joey’s shoes shifted on the floor—Margo could hear him rocking slightly, like he did when he was trying to not ask the thing he wanted to ask. “Can I ask—is this a one-time thing, or a new configuration we need to support?”
Bernie turned the page in his crossword puzzle book. “I don’t know yet.”
“Okay. That’s fine. That’s workable. You’ll let me know?”
Bernie looked at Joey over the top of his glasses. “I’ll let you know.”
“Thank you. That’s helpful.”
Joey came back through to the kitchen and picked up the avocado he’d set down. He held it for a moment, then began cutting it open.
“He doesn’t know yet,” Joey said.
Margo nodded.
“He’ll let me know. That’s fine.” Joey scooped the pit out cleanly and set it on the cutting board. “I’ll need to update the seating notation. I had him as booth, corner, daily. I’m thinking counter stool, third from register, one occasion, pending.”
“That sounds thorough.”
“It’s preliminary. I’ll finalize at lunch.” He lined up the avocado halves and reached for the next one. “I just want the documentation to reflect the current reality.”
“Of course you do,” Margo said, and meant it kindly, because Joey’s documentation was Joey’s way of making sure the world held still long enough for him to understand it, and she had always respected that about him even when it made her tired.
At ten-thirty Anna came off the grill for water and stopped next to Margo at the prep counter, pouring from the jug and drinking half the glass before she said anything.
“Bernie’s at the counter,” Anna said, wiping her cheek with the back of her hand.
“He is.”
“Did something happen?”
“I don’t know.”
Anna finished the water and set the glass down. “You haven’t asked him?”
Margo shrugged and reached for another tomato. “No. Not yet.”
Anna looked at her grandmother for a second and then she picked up her glass and went back to the grill.
Halfway through the morning, Bella jumped into the empty booth. She settled into the corner where Bernie usually sat, tucking her paws underneath her.
Joey was there in four seconds.
“No,” he said, scooping Bella off the table with both hands. “You can’t sit there. That’s Bernie’s booth.” He carried her toward the kitchen door, Bella hanging from his arms with an expression of mild outrage. “He’ll be right back. You can’t just—this is a seating assignment, Bella. There are systems. And you’re not supposed to be inside anyway.”
The lunch rush started at eleven-fifteen and went the way a Thursday lunch rush went. The tomato prep became cheese prep became running plates became the hiss and scrape of the grill became refilling coffees became wiping down a booth that someone had left sticky, and by the time Margo looked up it was after noon.
She walked over to the counter with the coffee pot. Bernie was still there, paper folded to the crossword now, pen in hand. His left hand was under the counter, resting on his knee, and hisweight was shifted to the right on the stool, one side doing more work than the other.
“Refill?” she asked, holding up the pot.
“Please.” He slid his cup toward her, and she filled it to the line she’d been filling it to for decades—three-quarters, no higher, because Bernie liked room and she’d learned that without either of them ever discussing it.
