Vanessa came by for the bulb she had already changed and stayed for coffee. Coffee was not a verdict. They sat in the bank-colored room. Derrick was at the warehouse. The head of the table was empty and the empty was only a man at work. Patrice said so. Vanessa said I can tell the difference now. The difference was the whole education. They drank. The pie knife hung on the magnet. The magnet held. Holding was the report. Imani texted a shift complaint to Lorraine and, by the habit of the salt joke, to Patrice. Patrice wrote accuracy. Vanessa read it and laughed once. The laugh was seated. Seated was the picture she had owed the table. She had paid it, late. Late was the style. Patrice walked her to the door. No coat left on a chair. The chair had a jacket of no one. No one was correct. The street was ordinary. Ordinary was the win. They said goodbye without a speech. Speeches were retired. The door shut. The shut was soft. Soft was a ending. Patrice rinsed the cups. The cups were two. Two was enough. The names were known. The pie was cut in memory and in practice. The practice was the story. She lived in it. The day proceeded. No one had to say who the empty chair was for, because there was not one, and the not-one was the grace.
She went to the store for nothing urgent and bought a tin anyway. The tin was for a Sunday that was not Thanksgiving. Sunday could have a pie without a symbol. She cut it that afternoon, before anyone arrived, so the cutting would be habit and not announcement. Habit was the policy. June took a slice. Derrick took a slice. Vanessa took a slice and sat down first. First was her entrance. Imani did not come. Not coming was a shift and a choice. Both were fine. Patrice texted a photo of the sliced tin. Imani sent a crime emoji. Accuracy, Patrice wrote.
The joke held. The chair in the stack was not invited. Invitations were for people. People were known. Known was the grace. She washed the knife while the slices disappeared. Disappearing pie was a cheer of the body. She allowed it. The towel was blue. The room was ugly. The truth was in the room without having to stand behind anything. That was the ending. It was ordinary. It was enough. The day proceeded, and nobody had to be told who was missing, because nobody who belonged to the sentence was missing from the knowing, and the knowing had been the whole request, said once, loud, before grace. Derrick dried the blue towel and hung it where the old one had been. Vanessa texted that she had sat down at her own table too. June sent a photo of an empty plate. Imani sent nothing, which was a shift, which was allowed. Lorraine did not need to be told the pie was cut. She already lived in the after. They all did. The after was the house. Patrice turned the light out in the dining room.
The ugly color went dark. Dark was only evening. Evening was enough. In the morning the knife was dry and the stack in the basement was only furniture and the phone had no secret thread. She made coffee. He drank it. The first of the month was just a date. The daughter was a person in a city with a shift. The first wife was a woman who had been right. The sister was a woman who had stood and then learned to sit. Patrice was the one who had carried the pie back and then, later, cut it first. That order was the repair. She kept it. The dining room stayed bank-colored and unhaunted. Kids would run through next year. The game would score. Somebody would cheer a play and only a play. She would cut the pie first. Vanessa would sit. Derrick would say a short grace. Dayton would text or not. Either would be a full day. Full was the win. She rinsed her cup. The cup dried. The house held. She walked past the head of the table and did not set a place. Not setting was the prayer. The prayer was short. Who is here. They were here, or they were known, and known was enough to live on, quietly, with a blue towel and a knife that cut clean and a sister who had learned to sit down.