“Your head has been somewhere else for three weeks,” Brenda said. She finally looked up, her eyes small and tired. “Customers notice. The couple at booth four had to ask three times for their rye toast.”
“It will not happen again,” I said. My voice was quiet. The words came out in short, careful blocks.
“I need to know you are fully here,” Brenda said, tapping her pencil against the edge of the desk. “We have twenty people on the waitlist for these floor shifts. If you cannot keep up, I have to give the hours to someone who can.”
“I am here,” I said.
“The three-hundred-dollar rent balance is cleared, then?” she asked, her voice softening just enough to let me know she had seen the yellow notice on my kitchen counter when she dropped off my mail last week. “You found a way?”
“It is paid,” I said.
She stared at me for five long seconds before she nodded toward the swinging door. “Get back out there. Table six just sat down.”
