She was sixty-one and had the arms of somebody who had carried trays since before I could drive.

“I might have been.”

She set down a glass of water and a napkin and wiped the same spot on the counter three times.

“The red booth’s open.

Nobody sits in the red one on Thursdays.”

I took the red booth.

She brought me pie I hadn’t ordered, peach, the crust torn open at one edge.

“You going to tell me,” she said, “or am I going to guess?”