Page 79 of One Adult, Please

"He's still doing it. He's still hitting the glass."

Gregory doesn't stop. Gregory is committed to his work.

"What's happening?" Beck's voice is groggy and confused, from the booth behind us. He's sitting up, hair flattened on one side, squinting at the window. "Is that a zombie?"

"That's Gregory," Grace says.

"Who's Gregory?"

"The zombie, Beck. Keep up."

Beck looks at the zombie. Looks at me. Then Grace's face. Then her hair, which is a disaster. Then back at me. A grin spreads across his face. "Did Gregory interrupt something?"

"Gregory interrupted nothing."

"Uh huh." Beck stretches, arms over his head, grin widening. "So you and Joel were just... hanging out in the dark, eating mozzarella sticks at 2 a.m. And Grace's hair just... does that naturally?"

"My hair is a journey, Beck. It goes places."

Gregory slams the window again. The glass holds, but the sound echoes through the restaurant, and two booths down, Grant stirs. He sits up slowly.

"What's happening?" Grant's voice is thick with sleep. He blinks at the window. "Is that a zombie?"

"That's Gregory," Beck, Grace, and I say in unison.

Grant stares at Gregory, who's still slapping the glass. "Why is it named Gregory?"

"Because he showed up uninvited and ruined everything," Grace says. "That's a Gregory move. Classic Gregory."

Grant considers this. Nods slowly. "Fair."

Gregory hits the glass one more time, then seems to lose interest, shuffling sideways along the window, fanny pack bouncing, disappearing into the dark of the plaza.

The restaurant is quiet. Beck is still grinning at me.

Grace clears her throat. "So. Anyway. That's Gregory. He lives here now. New resident of the big middle. I hate him."

"Noted," Beck says. "We hate Gregory."

"Hate is a strong emotion for a zombie you just met," Grant says mildly. "But I understand the impulse."

Grace picks up the paper boat of cold mozzarella sticks, stares at them, and then puts them down.

"I'm going back to my booth," she announces. "To sleep. Because it's late. And nothing happened. And Gregory ruined nothing because there was nothing to ruin."

She walks past me. Her shoulder brushes my arm. She doesn't look at me. But her hand finds mine, squeezes, and lets go. Then she's in her booth, lying down, pulling her hoodie up over her face like a blanket, and the conversation is over.

I go back to my booth. I lie down. I stare at the ceiling and I think about pressure gauges and pump schedules and the complete inadequacy of my previous life and the woman three booths away who tastes like cold mozzarella sticks and chaos.

Gregory shuffles past the window one more time, fanny pack swinging, parrots on his shirt catching the moonlight.

I should get up, and clear the variable. But the glass is holding, the doors are locked, and everyone is exhausted past the point where brave becomes stupid. Gregory becomes a morning problem.

I close my eyes. I don't sleep.

But I don't mind being awake.

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