FICTION: Service With a Distant Frown

The old couple clutched together wool engulfed in fur, barreling into the restaurant from the cold. He held the door and removed her coat. She shivered at the draft.

“You might as well just leave it on,” the woman said. “Heavens, at least the Taj has heaters in the entryway—and I swear the cooks used the same lamps to nuke that malleable muck. How about something closer to the kitchen, Darling?”

“Yes, Dear,” the man said. “Trifle cold.”

He instructed the hostess to seat them toward the back of the restaurant. Besides the momentary gusts through the threshold, the place felt muted. A low conversational hum buzzed like locusts in the distance, interrupted only by the clatter of a busy night’s dishes being washed. Scattered small parties picked at the paltry remains of plates like stuffed vultures.