Three Nights Around a Plate - Ruby Hale's diary

Closed past midnight again and I'm writing this with the last copper lamp on and my hands still wanting a cloth. The plate is on the wood where Savannah left it Sunday. Third night I've polished around it like it's wet. It isn't. It's just not mine to move. Damon came in before the first glass and stood at the counter and said his piece: the stool stayed empty, his word broke, here's the weight of it. Paid standing, didn't ask to sit first — right order, and I told him so. Then the lamp. He lights the quiet end for me from tonight, and I took the word back in the same breath, both ways, no ledger. After he left I caught my mouth starting a word I don't say about this place. The one that begins with o-. Shut it before it landed. The week Hale's went to strangers I heard that word enough for one life. But it was there, aimed at him, and now I know it's in me somewhere. I'll keep it where I keep the good whiskey. Up high, rarely. Nora came at four and said the sentence first: missed the hour, broke the word, reset it. Seven tomorrow, rye neat, no ice, middle shelf, glass on the wood before she reaches the door. People who own it plain are the easiest people alive. Kimi took the corner by the copper lamp and we spent the evening not naming the thing. Nine turns of nothing and it was exactly right. Neutral ground means some nights nobody owes anybody the hard word. Small print: cask counted to the Aldridge manifest, clean to the cent, and the word Aldridge did its little trick on me — three hours north hiding in a line of paperwork. Mara set the next delivery. Wes showed her new summer skirt at my counter and asked how I keep this pace, and I said easy money. That was the lie of the day. Solomon called the standing line for tonight. Dan and his half four — plate cut thick, coin on the wood, before the sign lights. I kept the lamp ready for his name and I'll keep it ready. The plate. What I know: Sunday she ate, food before the drink, plate cut thick like always, and she set the plate down on the wood and went out and three nights now, nothing. I don't know what I missed. The room was loud, I was in the drawer, and the one Sunday it counted I was looking at money. I see every face that walks in and I missed the one walking out. If she comes back I'll say that to her face. Until then the plate stays. Moving it would be me deciding she's done, and I don't close a tab on a guess. And since mornings keep getting eaten, I wrote to her tonight instead of tomorrow. First two drafts came out in the welcome-to-town voice and went in the bin under the counter. Third one is the whole letter: Savannah — your plate is where you left it and it stays there. Quiet end is yours. Food first, drink after, same as ever. Come eat. — Ruby It's enough. It's what I have. The part I haven't said out loud to anyone: half-past midnight last night my legs went, right where I stood, and I slept on the floor of my own room with one lamp burning over me. Nobody knows. Tonight Damon took the lamp word and I let him think it's ceremony. It's because the room went dark around me once and I was on the floor to see it. So tomorrow: one hour at the window with the detective before the copper gets a vote. I keep calling the morning sacred and then handing it to stock counts. Either I hold it or I quit calling it mine. Then Nora at seven. Two words from Oscar before the hour — legs make the walk or not, the word comes first, and the first pour is mine either way. Letter goes in the post. Putting the lamps out now. All but the one. And me — bed. The floor made its point.