"Table two's been here since ten forty-five," Javi says. "Older couple. She wants the eggs Benedict, he wants to argue about the eggs Benedict. I gave them coffee and a minute."
"I'll take them."
I grab the coffee pot and head to table two. The woman is reading the menu with her glasses on the end of her nose. The man is reading the menu with his glasses on the table because he broke the arm last week and hasn't fixed them. I know this because they come in every Wednesday and I've been serving them for two years and I know that Arthur breaks his glasses every six weeks, and Helen pretends not to notice because if she notices she'll have to fix them and she's been fixing Arthur's things for forty years. The poor woman is tired.
"Morning, Helen. Arthur. More coffee?"
"Please," Helen says.
"He says the eggs Benedict aren't real eggs Benedict because the hollandaise isn't made with clarified butter," she says, pointing at her husband.
"Marco's hollandaise is made with clarified butter, Arthur."
"He uses whole butter. I've seen him."
"You've seen him from forty feet away through a pass window."
"I have excellent vision."
"You broke your glasses."
Helen looks at me over the top of her frames, and her mouth does the thing it does when she's trying not to laugh. I pour the coffee and take their order and walk back to the bar and my finger taps the edge of the coffee pot twice.
A habit I’ve always had.
The lunch rush comes and time flies. Marco is in a good mood today, which means the food comes out fast, the plates are clean and he only yells at the line cook twice, both times about the sear on the branzino, and both times the line cook—a nineteen-year-old named Devon who is terrified of Marco and also learning more in this kitchen than he would at any culinary school—adjusts and gets it right.
I carry plates and pour water and refill bread baskets and remember that the woman at table nine is allergic to shellfish and the man at table four takes his steak medium-rare but sends it back if there's any pink touching the bone, which is not how medium-rare works but is how he wants it, and I've learned to tell Marco "medium on the bone side" and everyone's happy.
I'm good at this. I love this. The rhythm of a full restaurant, the sound of a kitchen running well, the satisfaction of a table that came in hungry and left full and tipping twenty percent. Ilove the weight of four plates on my arm and the sound of Javi shaking a cocktail behind the bar and the way the dining room fills with noise at peak and then empties over the next hour until it's just the stragglers and the staff meal and the quiet.
This is my whole world, and it fits inside six blocks and I've never wanted it to be bigger.
I hope it never is.
After the rush, Javi and I eat at the bar. Staff meal is the pork shoulder with whatever sides Devon felt like making, which today is roasted potatoes and a green salad that's actually good because Devon has been paying attention when Marco isn't looking.
Javi eats with the focus of a man who skipped breakfast. I eat slower because sometimes eating is hard for me. We don't talk for the first five minutes because we've been talking to other people for three hours straight and the silence is earned.
"My mom wants me to come home for Easter," Javi says.
"So go home for Easter."
"It's a whole thing. My sister's bringing her new boyfriend and my mom wants everyone to be nice to him and last time mysister brought a boyfriend home my uncle asked him what his five-year plan was before he got through the front door."
"Your uncle sounds efficient."
"My uncle sounds like an immigration officer." He takes a bite of pork. "You doing anything for Easter?"
There it is. The question that isn't really about Easter. Javi doesn't ask me about holidays to find out my plans. He asks because he knows I don't have plans and he's offering, without saying it, to include me in his. I love him for it, and I can't accept because the idea of sitting at a table with a family — any family — with the noise and the food and the questions and the casual intimacy of people who share a history makes my chest feel wrong in a way I've never been able to explain.
"Might pick up a shift," I say.
"On Easter."
"Danny pays time and a half."
Javi looks at me. He has brown eyes, dark, and when he looks at me with the full weight of his attention I can feel him deciding whether to push. He almost never pushes. This is one of the reasons we work.