“It was okay,” I say, feigning nonchalance. “But do you think you could get a little closer?”
“Don’t scrape my door, smart aleck,” she snaps. “This is a delicate machine.”
She stands on her seat and hops over the door to the pavement, like a gymnast doing a floor exercise over a horse. I catch up to her at the line coming out of Jack & Marion’s door.
“Have they said how long?” she asks the couple we stop behind.
“Ten minutes,” the woman says.
“Which means twenty,” the man says.
“That’s not bad,” I say. “Either way.”
“It’s okay with me,” Hannah says, giving me a suspicious glance. “You’re the one in a hurry.”
Two couples squeeze their way out the door. They’re in high spirits, and I guess that they’re neighbors, out for a late breakfast. Maybe they live across the hall from each oth
