I printed hundreds of missing-person posters.
Since Mom vanished, « whatever I could spare » had become almost everything. Searching for her wasn’t cheap. Neither was keeping our family afloat without her.
That Friday, a couple was seated in my section shortly after seven. They looked like they belonged at this restaurant: wealthy enough to treat the prices as decorative suggestions.
They were celebrating their anniversary, they told me.
They were polite—kinder than many of our regulars—but distracted. The man kept checking his phone beneath the table. Every time he did, the woman stopped talking and watched his face.
« Could we have the check? »
Still, they ordered like people determined to celebrate: oysters, filet mignon, lobster, three cocktails, and a bottle of Bordeaux from the locked cabinet.
By the time they declined dessert, their bill had reached $407.63.
« Could we have the check? » the man asked, glancing at his phone again.
I set the leather folder beside him and went to deliver drinks to another table. I couldn’t have been gone more than three minutes.
