He didn't come the following Thursday.
No text ahead. No explanation. Just the absence of the bell above the door at eight forty-seven and the window table sitting empty in the April morning with the particular emptiness of something expected that hadn't arrived.
I made the tart anyway.
Not for him — or not only for him. The brown sugar bourbon tart was on the menu and the menu existed independently of Marcus Calloway's Thursday attendance record and I was a professional person running a professional establishment and the tart went in the case at nine-fifteen regardless.
Dorothy got the first slice.
She said it was excellent.
I thanked her and went back to work.
---
He texted at noon.
Marcus: I'm sorry about this morning. Something came up.
I looked at the message for a moment.
