“Why are we here?” Dave asked an hour later when I asked him to join me at Little Greek Heaven, my workplace on Main Street. The restaurant was closed on Sundays and Mondays.
He was sitting in a booth, his hands wrapped around the warmth of his coffee mug. He looked at me and smiled.
I sat across from him. “I wanted to do something special for you before you left today.”
His gaze shifted, and he reached for his fourth packet of sugar from the plastic container at the end of the table. He tore it open with his teeth and emptied the fine white grains into the mug, stirring quickly with a spoon.
“I could’ve gotten something to eat along the interstate,” he said, dropping his spoon by his elbow and lifting the mug to his lips, blowing the wisps of steam and sipping gradually.
I leaned for
