The rush thinned the way Saturday rushes thinned, not all at once but by subtraction. The sisters left a precise fifteen percent and a pamphlet about a church sale. The road crew argued about a transmission and then, abruptly, were gone, leaving a table that looked like weather had happened to it. Emily cleared, wiped, reset. The chrome came back under her rag in long bright strokes. Her black shoes made their quiet circuit. Each time she passed the window booth she did not stop, and each time, Caleb was still there, working the next problem on the practice set with a concentration that had lost its panic. Denise had ordered him a chocolate milk without making a speech about protein. She herself drank the coffee inch by inch, as if she had decided to take the cup seriously now that it had been used against her.
When the pie case had been stared at by enough undecided people, Emily came back. She brought a notebook she used for side work, not because she needed notes, but because she did not want to stand over them like a lecturer who had forgotten her classroom. She sat this time. The vinyl took her in. It was strange to be on the customer side of the chrome, even at the edge, her apron bunching, the knot pressing her stomach. Caleb had eaten half the fries and pushed the rest toward the center, a peace offering to physics. Denise had a small notebook of her own, closed.
“Coconut cream or apple,” Emily said. “Those are the ones I’d defend. The cherry is prettier than it is honest.”
“Apple,” Denise said. “Two forks. He’ll say he doesn’t want any and then he’ll do the work of a third fork. And coffee, if you’re allowed to sit and also be the person who brings it.”