Side by side at Gloria's

The round table, the one with strongest natural light, made a snug refuge that morning.  Though it meant they had to turn their heads to see each other, the trio chose to sit close together, for the table was roomy enough, easily, for six or eight and they didn't want to feel so separated, so soon.  They sat on the interior edge and could see muted reflections in the fog-backed window.  Before midday  Mr. Guscott would be lifting above the valley and shore, flying toward what he hoped would be the known and the surprising in equal measure.

Mr. Apotienne, whose emotions he had come to regard as far-flung, or far-flinging, settled into his state of anticipated loss with the appetite of a stevedore.  He gave an instant of thought to the way food made a brilliant though temporary pain reliever and dove into his spinach and sauteed mushroom omelette as one might train for an Olympic event.   As much as he enjoyed butter in the years of his life before Billington's Cove and Gloria's cooking, he was now in a state of continual seduction/surrender to any food in which the taste of butter could be found.  He chuckled to himself, turned to smile at his companions, and just said, "Butter."  They nodded, sharing his pleasure.

It felt like sitting at the counter in a diner, the way Mr. Apotienne, the soon to depart Mr. Guscott in the middle, and Gloria had arranged themselves.  True, they were not in an absolutely straight line but almost shoulder to shoulder, elbows touching gently from time to time, not with enough vigor to spill anyone's tea.  Each held a notion of quiet wonder at the patterns that had etched so quickly into their days, at the connections forged with not all that many words exchanged, unless you tried to count Noel Coward, which was not a conversation by anyone's definition.  Still, it was communication.