He can’t see the new arrivals the moment they enter, because the door is hidden from him, but he can observe the reactions to their arrivals. Each brings a gust of cold air, and Matthew can see its effect on the people at the bar. As the draft advances, heads turn toward the door. There’s a delay, a rippling effect, like the effect of a breeze on a field of grass or, Matthew supposes, on a field of wheat, though he has never seen a field of wheat.
Or, suggests BW, like that annoying wave people produce at football games when they are bored by the game itself or simply overcome by an irresistible need to act in mindless concert with other yahoos.
Some arrivals get no more greeting than a blank glance, the worst sort of rejection, utter lack of interest. For others there are elaborate displays of pleasure.
Most of it false, of course, says BW. Entirely fake.
Again there is a ripple of turning heads. For this person, whoever it may be, there is a collective lingering glance.
It must not be somebody they know, thinks Matthew.
The looks are pleasant.
No recognition. But the beginnings of smiles. Somebody happy. It’s somebody happy. Happiness holds people’s attention. Happiness is attractive.
It’s Liz, blowing in fresh as the air she lets in with her, peeking around the corner, looking for Matthew in the back room, nearly bounding down the steps, saying, “Hi, hi, hi,” when she reaches his table.
Matthew has been expecting an apology when she arrives, and he has concocted a script for their exchange, giving himself lines that make it clear he hasn’t been forlornly waiting.
“Sorry I’m late,” Liz will say if she follows his script. “Everything that could go wrong did go wrong. I hope you haven’t been waiting here for half an hour.”
“No, no,” he’ll say. “Not at all. In fact, I just got here. Somehow I lost track of the time.”
Liz, however, doesn’t cooperate. She makes no excuse, simply throws her coat onto the banquette next to Matthew and takes the chair across from him. “God, what a day, what a day, what a day I’ve had,” she says, beaming. “Did you order a drink?”
“Yes, I did. And here it comes now, I think.”
The waif is making her way down the three steps from the bar, carrying Matthew’s martini, holding the glass by the stem. The glass is filled to the brim, and she’s concentrating fiercely on keeping it level, taking her steps with exaggerated care.
Like a mime pretending to carry a full cocktail glass down three steps.
She glances in Matthew’s direction, sees that he’s watching her, and smiles. She spills a little of the drink.
What about that smile? Is she flirting? Or is she just happy, happy to be running this restaurant?
She delivers the drink.
“I’ll have one of those, too,” says Liz.
The waif shrugs. This isn’t really her job, after all, but since she isn’t certain what else she ought to be doing, she might as well serve cocktails. “Okay,” she says.
Matthew smiles at her. “Good luck,” he says. He thinks of adding a wink, an echo of hers before.
Liz would be likely to notice. Not a good idea.
Oh, go ahead, says BW.
No. Not a good idea.
[to be continued]
In Topical Guide 534, Mark Dorset considers Physical Phenomena: Waves from this episode.
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🎧 534: He can’t see ...