Put It on the Master Tab
I watched it arrive the way you watch weather you have been burned by before — alert, braced, ready.
The waiter set the leather folder down in the dead center of the table, in the old neutral zone where it had once sat in front of me by gravitational default, as though my seat and the bill were magnetized.
For one bad second the table went into its ancient choreography.
Eyes flicked.
Shoulders found sudden fascinations across the room.
The old silence began to assemble itself, the silence that used to end with me reaching for my purse.
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