Page 8 of Shatter

"Smartass." He points a thick finger at me. "Lock it."

The door thuds shut.

I slide the bolt home.

When I come back out front, the corner booth is empty.

His plate's scraped bare, and a twenty is folded under the edge of his coffee mug.

His bill was ten and change.

The bill stays in my hand longer than it should, the soft paper rubbing between my fingers.

I didn't hear him leave.

Didn't hear his motorcycle, either, the low growl usually rattling the front windows when he pulls out onto Tennessee.

I tuck the twenty into my apron and pick up his mug.

The ceramic is still warm where his hand wrapped around it.

He's the only customer who ever slides his mug toward me so I don't have to reach.

It takes me twenty minutes to close.

Mop the floor.

Wipe down the counter and the booths.

Count the drawer and lock it in the office safe.

Roll the silverware for tomorrow, forty sets, a fork, knife and spoon wrapped tight in a paper napkin, because Dale's morning girl never has time and I don't mind.

I like the rolling.

My hands know how to do it without me.

At eight minutes after two, I turn off the neon owl, and the dining room goes dim except for the pie case glowing in the corner.

I grab my bag from the office, fish my keys out of my apron, and lace them between my fingers.

House key, car key, the key to the office safe Dale trusts me with, and the little brass key to a mailbox I've never gotten a single piece of mail in.

The front door has a deadbolt and a push bar.

I step out, pull the door closed behind me, and turn the key in the lock until it clicks.

Then I turn around.

The parking lot is bigger than it needs to be, cracked asphalt running out into gravel at the edges where the old tire shop used to be.

Two light poles.

One of them buzzes and flickers.

The other one, the one closest to where I park, is dark.

It wasn't dark when I pulled in at six.