A lone waiter stands in a window.

It’s 2PM. Two women are reading the menu outside. The waiter straightens as they come in, and the boy ducks back into the kitchen. Hello ladies, for two? Three, thanks. We’re expecting one more. He seats them and comes back with a pitcher of water. Our soup du jour is a tomato bisque served with garlic croutons. Today’s wine is a Beaujolais, one litre for twenty-two dollars. They order calamari to share, and a bottle of Pinot Grigio. What’s your name? the older woman asks. Sergio, he replies, and yours? I’m Deb, and this is Sarah. Right across the street from here her show is running. She wrote that play. She was a blonde woman. She looked how beautiful actresses look when they play plain women in movies. Sergio recognized her now that she’d taken off her hat and let her hair down. She’d been in a number of times, they’d chatted, but she never mentioned the play. The sign said LIFE OF LOVE, though the F in LIFE had burnt out. I had no idea that was your play. Sorry, I haven’t seen it, but I’ve served of people who have. They come when the show lets out. We get a post-dinner rush. He paused, gathering his sincerity. I’ve heard great things. Sarah looked embarrassed. She shrugged and mouthed the words thank you. Her sheepishness irked her companion. Deb kept going. They’ve picked it up another season. That’s the first play in ten years they’ve done that. And that’s who’s joining us, the man on the billboard. He’s the lead. I’m sure you know him. Davis Burroughs? Sergio had served him a few times. None of this would be possible, without Davis, Sarah gushed. He’s the show. He really is. He’s so good. He’s the Marcello of comedy, don’t you think, Deb? They went on like that for a moment. Sergio adjusted the napkin draped over his arm. And you? You’re also an actress? he said, turning to Deb. She cackled. Me? Oh no, I’m no one, she said. Sarah cut in. Deb’s my agent and manager. This is her handiwork. I’d be nothing without her. Deb looked satisfied. Sarah seemed too willing to pass out credit until there was none left, and seemed relieved not to have to hold any of her own. Sergio left them holding hands across the table like two great herons clamping down on each other’s beaks, chained to the other’s flattery. He punched in the order and walked preciously back to a little chair he’d positioned for himself near the bread warming station. He was moving slower than usual that day. He’d woken up with a hemorrhoid of notable size and worried now it had grown bigger since arriving for his shift. He tried to get out of work that day but no one picks up a double on a Friday. He got up again when he remembered there was no bartender. They were sent home early, so he went to retrieve the wine and ice bucket himself. He re-polished two glasses where the ladies could see him, holding each up to the light, turning them for show. He returned to the table. Your Pinot Grigio. Who’ll be trying the wine? Deb tried it and nodded. He poured and waddled back to the chair. Lucky he’d had epsom salts handy and had soaked in a bath before coming in. That seemed to have reduced the swelling, but Sergio was becoming increasingly paranoid at the idea of the nodule bursting. His server slacks were khaki, a poor logistics decision made by the owner of the bistro. He decided he’d ask the evening manager to cut him first when they arrived. Just then the sous chef tapped the little bell a second time on the pass. Sergio retrieved a lukewarm calamari and returned to the table.