Understand, nothing matters. Understand, if it’s important it will return. It may be days, it may be weeks, it may be a moment, it may be an hour. The time it takes; to clear a table, take an order, make a coffee, slice a cake, roll an eye, steam some milk, sneer. If it’s important, you’ll remember. Understand, there’s nothing more important than that thread; an interrupted joke, half a story, a character, the plot, a theme, an end. The interruption preceding a denouement elongates a story; over weeks, a month, an hour, a minute, a moment, ‘just a second’, a year. A conversation begins at the counter, middles in the kitchen, ends on the restaurant floor. A mop and a bucket or a cloth in hand, in stitches, bending over, tears streaming. Over crumbs, scraping scraps, fetching salt, polishing silver, folding napkins, stacking glasses, counting change. Bums on a bench, coffee in hand; a stained apron, a satisfied smirk, aching feet, a tired smile, footsteps cross a freshly mopped floor.