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Show 144 turns you to stone." She turned, startled, and smiled at him. "Who's Lorin Hood? Is he local?" She had seen his signature in the corner, disguised as cracks in ice. "Your humble servant," he said and bowed, holding the tray behind him. A loose napkin fluttered to the floor. "Oh," she said. Her smile tightened its corners a fraction. He went back to the kitchen, his face burning, and clattered cups and plates and waited for her to follow him and tell him she liked it. When he looked out she was back with her friends at a round table, seated between Simon and Shannon, looking around her as though she enjoyed her company. It had happened, then. Someone had trifled with him. He savored his anger the rest of the night and went out of his way to be polite to everyone, especially Simon. He told Noel to sit still while he, Lorin, took care of the espresso machine, the record player, the occasional sandwich order. He urged Paul to go home when the last customer had gone at two o'clock, and he, Lorin, would bung the place out. Noel had already left. Lorin sterilized the last of the cups, swept the last rolls of dirt and the breadcrusts through the kitchen and out the doorway into the alley, watered all the plants and checked once more to see that the toilet had been flushed, and then drove home through dark empty streets, swollen with indignation. Yvonne was asleep when he arrived. Her eyelids were only lightly closed, but her forehead was creased with lines. Both fists lay clenched at her sides, on top of the blanket. He brushed past the empty blue jug by the bureau and went to the screened porch to look at his day's work one last time in the glare of the overhead light. The orange, he decided, was too dominant. The lute and other objects floated on |