Vignettes — #20
Moses
Moses, forty-five, dressed in neat, casual, dark slacks and a light-blue open shirt, walks through the café to the patio at the back. He stops at the table he usually sits at, the one in the corner, against the railing, overlooking the wooded creek below.
RESERVED
He feels put out. He has sat here every late afternoon for weeks, except on weekends. He looks around. There are seven other unoccupied tables. Why this one?
“I made sure no-one would sit here.”
Moses swings around on his heels. It’s Yvette. He knows her name because of her nametag.
“Oh,” is all he can manage at first. Then, “Thanks.” He sits down.
“Double espresso with hot water on the side coming up. And a glass of sparkling water with lemon?” She smiles down at him.
“Yes, please.”
He watches her disappear into the café, then looks down to the creek. A pair of wagtails are chasing each other in and out of the foliage. A kookaburra calls in the distance and is answered by the staccato laugh of two or three others.
“Here you are then.”
He turns his attention back to the table, as Yvette arranges the drinks. She hesitates then says, “You come here every day at this time and always sit here. Is…
