Page 58 of Angel of Thursdays

Cassiel looked at him.

“Why?”

“My mom and I aren’t—Well, that’s not fair, we’re—” He waved a hand, the gesture standing in for a whole spiel he wasn’t ready to give. “Anyway, I’m not going. I wanted to… uh. Seollal’s the twenty-ninth. Right?”

“Yes.”

“Can I come?”

Small. He made it small on purpose. His hands were in his pockets and his thumbnail was pressing into his index finger hard enough to leave a mark but the walls weren’t going up. He was still here.

“My mother has been planning the menu since the twelfth.”

May’s step faltered. “She—already knows?”

“She assumed,” Cassiel said, placing a little emphasis on the word ‘assumed’ that rang dangerously close to amusement, “that you would be there for at least some portion of it.”

That was a classic Asian mom move. A classic Miss Mary move, actually, to assume that he was going to make it out to Fremont, possibly on the same night that he was expected at his own parents’ place.

They walked the last few blocks quietly. May’s apartment was around the corner, the mint-green stucco pretty in the golden light. The beautiful window that was not his glared down at them as they approached, every day a reminder that he did not live where the window lived.

Inside, Cassiel went to the turntable. Adjusting something, always adjusting something. May found Louis’s cartridge still in the Switch. He turned the TV on, said, “Hey Cassiel, you wanna see something cool?” and didn’t wait.

14

CASSIEL

Gingerbread Latte: IT’S SEASONAL.

The specials board had been redone over the weekend. The ALWAYS from December had disappeared, replaced by a fresh problem. The serif on the letter g curved inward like a fishhook, making Gingerbread look like Ginyerbread. Cassiel considered mentioning it to Jonas for two reasons. The first was the serif, which would make him sound more insane than Jonas already thought he was. The second—more reasonable—was that it was nearing the end of January, and IT’S SEASONAL was still stretching definitions, ALWAYS or not.

But Cassiel decided to say nothing.

He sat at the bench seat against the back wall, where the brick met plaster and the draft from the pass-through window couldn’t reach. His mug was his favorite and the latte was still too hot to drink. The integrity of the chocolate chips was going to be a concern but he held it anyway. His hands happened to be cold.

Sparrow on a Tuesday had a different demographic than Sparrow on a Thursday. A woman in her sixties with reading glasses on a beaded chain had taken the window table. Mochaccino, crossword, ink pen. Cassiel respected the conviction of ink. A stroller blocked the bathroom hallway, its occupant asleep with one sock on. Jonas wiped the counter in long arcs.

Cassiel slipped his headphones on.

The Midori notebook sat closed on the table beside his elbow. He’d written in it once since Christmas. To be precise, he’d drawn a straight line down the first page, creating two empty columns. He titled one, but not the other. Nothing else. And nothing else today either, it seemed. Ink required conviction and his Pilot Custom 823 was still clipped in the breast pocket of his blazer.

* * *

Peter had left a Breitling Navitimer on the intake shelf with a yellow tag that read CUSTOMER SAYS “RUNS WEIRD.”

The shop was cold, so Cassiel kept his blazer on as he sat down at the bench. Peter kept the heat low until noon; the display case glass fogged otherwise. Fingers stiff, Cassiel turned on the lamp.

The Breitling first. Caseback off—Valjoux 7750 underneath, dusty and dry. Oil migration across the train. Third wheel pivot with lateral play. Six seconds fast per day, within COSC tolerance, outside what the movement should do when properly serviced. He jotted the diagnosis down and set it aside.

The Hamilton had been on the bench since Monday. A Khaki Field, mid-sixties—the owner’s uncle had worn it in Vietnam, and the kid was graduating in May and wanted it running. Cassiel was close to done. What remained was slow, careful, and entirely his focus.

He liked this watch. It was overbuilt for what it was, but someone at the factory in Lancaster had finished these bridges knowing they’d be opened under worse light than Cassiel’s lamp, by hands less steady than his, and had done the work properly anyway. He respected that.

He found the tweezers and got to work.

“Casio,” came Peter’s voice from the front, after a while. “Lauren’s calling the shop.”

“She doesn’t need to call the shop. She can call me.”