The Empty Table

In February, Maya was not new anymore. She knew every button on the coffee machine. She knew that Luis wanted two blueberry muffins and that Nurse Priya drank green tea on her break. She knew the red button, and she never touched it.

And she knew that at three o'clock, the door opened and Mr. Grant came in.

But on a Tuesday night, at three o'clock, the door didn't open.

At ten past three, Maya looked at the clock. At twenty past three, she looked at the door. At half past three, she went to Sam in the office.

"Mr. Grant isn't here," she said.

Sam looked up from his computer. "Maybe he's sick. Maybe he's sleeping. He's eighty years old, Maya. He can miss one night."

"In the storm, he walked here through forty centimetres of snow," Maya said. "He never misses a night. You told me."

Sam didn't answer for a moment. Then he closed his computer.

"You're right," he said. "That's strange."

"Do you have his phone number?"

"No. I don't know where he lives. He said two streets away once, but I don't know which street."

At four o'clock, Nurse Priya came in for her break. She sat at the counter and put her head on her arms.

"Long night?" Maya asked.