After Closing

The sign on the door of the Blue Plate said CLOSED, but the lights in the kitchen were still on.

It was nine o'clock on a Friday night, two weeks before Marco's test. Bev had gone home. Gus had gone home. The chairs were upside down on the tables, the floor was wet and shining, and the only sounds were the dishwasher humming and the radio playing old country songs very quietly.

Lina sat at the counter with her green pen and a cup of tea. It was her night off. She had told herself she was here to correct Marco's last practice email. That was true. It was not the only thing that was true.

On Tuesday, Frank had taught the second part of the listening test: a conversation between two people about daily life. "Neighbours, friends, a couple, colleagues," he had said. "They talk about ordinary things. But the questions often ask what someone wants, or how someone feels, or what they will probably do next. And people almost never say that directly. So listen to what they don't say. Listen to the pauses." Lina had written it in her notebook: Listen to the pauses. She had not expected to need it on a Friday night.

Marco was cleaning the grill with a metal scraper, slowly, the way he did everything in the kitchen: carefully and with total attention.

"You don't have to stay," he said. "You should sleep. You never sleep."

"I'll sleep in March," said Lina. "I told you."