Waitresses are adept at reading body language. So are wives who’ve lived under the same roof as angry drunks. And I had been both, a wife for fourteen years and a waitress for almost four. Part of my job was to know, sometimes even before customers did, what they wanted. I could do that with my ex, too, anticipate exactly what he wanted the second he came through the door. And yet whenever I tried to turn that skill on myself, to anticipate my own needs, I couldn’t.

I hadn’t planned to become a waitress. Does anyone? I got the job at Café Rose after my ex died. And in the following four years, as I moved from grief to anger to a kind of numb limbo, I waited. I waited on people, I waited on time, I waited on life. Still, I actually kind of liked my job. Working in a place like Café Rose, in a city like New Orleans, you get your regulars, your favorites and a few you try to pawn off on your co-workers. Dell couldn’t stand serving the local eccentrics because they were bad tippers. But I overheard the best stories. So we had a trade-off. I would take the eccentrics and the musicians if she waited on the students, or anyone with babies and strollers.

My absolute favorites were the couples, this one couple in particular. Strange maybe to say this, but I’d get butterflies whenever they walked in. The woman was in her late thirties, beautiful in the way some French women are—glowing skin, short hair, and yet she had an undeniably feminine air. Her man, the guy she always came in with, had an open face, with brown hair shaved close to his head. He was tall with a lean, lithe body, and a little younger than her, I think. Neither the man nor the woman wore wedding rings, so I wasn’t sure about the exact nature of their relationship. But whatever it was, it was intimate. They always looked like they’d just come from having sex or were heading to do just that after a quick lunch.

Every time they sat down, they did this thing where the guy would place his elbows on the table, opening up his hands to face her. She’d wait a beat, then gently place her elbows on the table in front of his, and they’d suspend their hands, palms open, an inch from each other’s, as though there was a gentle force preventing them from touching—just for a second, before it got cheesy or was noticeable to anyone but me. Then their fingers would interlock. He would kiss the tips of her fingers, now framed by the backs of his hands, one after the other. Always left to right. She would smile. All this happened quickly, so quickly, before they’d separate their hands and scan the menu. Watching them, or trying to watch without seeming to watch, triggered a deep, familiar longing in me. I could feel what she felt, as though it was his hand caressing mine, or my forearm, my wrist.

The life I’d lived held no such longings. Tenderness wasn’t familiar to me. Nor urgency. My ex-husband, Scott, could be kind and generous when he was sober, but towards the end, when his drinking had him by the throat, he was anything but. After he died, I cried for all the pain he had been in and all the pain he had caused, but I didn’t miss him. Not even a little. Something atrophied in me, then died, and soon five years had passed since I’d had sex. Five Years. I often thought of this accidental celibacy like it was a skinny old dog, left with no choice but to follow me. Five Years came with me everywhere, tongue lolling, trotting on its toes. When I tried on clothes, Five Years lay panting on the floor of the change room, its gleaming eyes ridiculing my attempt to look prettier in a new dress. Five Years also parked itself beneath every table of every tepid date I went on, slumped at my feet.

None of the dates I’d been on had led me to a relationship of any value. At thirty-five, I’d begun to believe “it” would never happen again. To be wanted, to be craved, the way this man craved this woman, was like something out of a foreign movie in a language I’d never learn, with subtitles that were becoming increasingly blurry.

“Third date,” my boss mumbled, startling me. I was standing next to Will behind the pastry counter, where he was wiping dishwasher spots off the glasses. He had noticed me noticing the couple. And I noticed his arms as I always did. He was wearing a plaid shirt, rolled to the elbows, his forearms muscular and covered with soft sun-bleached hair. Though we were just friends, every once in a while I was a little shaken by his sexiness, enhanced by the fact that he was completely oblivious to it.

“Maybe fifth date, don’t you think? Is that how long women wait before they sleep with a guy they’re dating?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

Will rolled his dark blue eyes at me. He no longer tolerated my whining about my lack of dates.

“Those two were like that from day one,” I said, glancing back at my couple. “They’re totally into each other.”

“I give them six months,” Will said.

“Cynic,” I replied, shaking my head.

We often did this, speculated on the imaginary relationship between two customers. It was our little thing, a way to pass the time.

“Okay, look over there. See that old guy splitting a plate of mussels with that young woman?” he said, pointing out a different couple, discreetly, with his chin. I craned my neck, trying not to stare too obviously at an older man with a much younger woman.

“I bet that’s his best friend’s daughter,” Will said, lowering his voice. “She’s finally graduated and wants to apprentice at his law office. But now that she’s twenty-one, he’s going to put the moves on her.”

“Ew. What if she’s just his daughter?”

Will shrugged.

I scanned the room, surprisingly busy for a Tuesday afternoon. I pointed out yet another couple, in the corner just finishing their meal. “Now, see those two?”

“Yeah.”

“I think they’re just about to break up,” I said. Will gave me a look like I was going too far into fantasyland. “There’s almost no eye contact at all between them, and he was the only one to order a dessert. I brought him two spoons, but he didn’t even offer her a bite. Bad sign.”

“Always a bad sign. A man should always share his dessert,” he said, winking. I had to smile. “Hey, can you finish polishing the glasses? I have to pick up Tracina. Her car broke down again.”

Tracina was the night waitress Will had been dating for a little over a year, after asking me out didn’t get him anywhere. I was initially flattered by his interest in me, but I was in no position to act on it. I needed a friend more than I needed to be dating my boss. Plus, we eventually crossed so deep into the friend zone that despite my attraction, it was less of a struggle to keep things platonic … except for the odd time that I’d catch him working late in the back office, the top button of his shirt undone, his sleeves rolled up, running his fingers through his thick, salt-and-pepper hair. But I could shake the feeling off.

Then he started dating Tracina. I once accused him of hiring her just so he could take her out.

“So what if I did? It’s one of the few perks of being the boss,” he said.

After I finished polishing the glasses, I printed up my couple’s bill and made my way slowly to their table. That’s when I noticed the woman’s bracelet for the first time, a thick gold chain festooned with small gold charms.

It was so unusual, a pale yellow with a matte finish. The charms had Roman numerals on them on one side and words, which I couldn’t quite read, on the other. There were about a dozen charms on the chain. The man seemed captivated by this piece of jewelry, too. He ran his fingers through the charms as he caressed her wrist and forearm with both hands. His touch was firm, possessive in a way that caught me in the throat and caused the area behind my belly button to warm up. Five Years.

“Here you go,” I said, my voice rising an octave. I slid the bill on the part of the table not covered by their limbs. They seemed astonished by my presence.

“Oh. Thanks!” the woman said, straightening.

“Was everything okay?” I asked. Why was I feeling shy towards them?

“Perfect as always,” she said.

“It was great, thanks,” the man added, digging for his wallet.

“Let me get this one. You always pay.” The woman leaned sideways and pulled her wallet from her purse and gave me a credit card. Her bracelet tinkled as she moved. “Here you go, sweetheart.” She was my age and calling me “sweetheart”? Her confidence let her get away with it. When I took the credit card, I thought I saw concern flash across her eyes. Was she noticing my stained brown work shirt? The one I always wore because it matched the color of the food that ended up on it? I felt suddenly aware of my appearance. I also realized I wasn’t wearing any makeup. Oh God, and my shoes—brown and flat. No stockings—ankle socks, if you can believe it. What had happened to me? When had I turned prematurely into a middle-aged frump?

My face burned as I walked away, shoving the credit card in my apron. I headed straight for the washroom to splash cold water on my face. I smoothed down my apron and looked in the mirror. I wore brown clothing because it was practical. I can’t wear a dress. I am a waitress. As for my messy ponytail, hair has to be tied back. It’s regulation. I supposed I could comb it back more smoothly, instead of sloppily wrapping it up in an elastic like a clutch of asparagus. My shoes were the shoes of a woman who hadn’t given a lot of thought to her feet, despite how nice I’ve been told mine are. And it’s true that I hadn’t had a professional manicure since the night before my wedding. But those things are a waste of money. Still, how had I let it come to this? I had officially let myself go. Five Years lay slumped against the bathroom door, exhausted. I returned to the table with the credit card slip, avoiding eye contact with either of them.

“Have you worked here long?” the man asked, while the woman scribbled her signature.

“About four years.”

“You’re very good at your job.”

“Thank you.” I felt heat rise in my face.

“We’ll see you next week,” the woman said. “I just love this old place.”

“It’s seen better days.”

“It’s perfect for us,” she added, handing me the bill and winking at her man.

I looked at her signature, expecting something florid and interesting. Pauline Davis seemed plain and small, which was kind of reassuring to me in that moment.

My eyes followed the couple as they left, walking past the tables and outside, where they kissed and parted ways. As she passed the front window, the woman glanced in at me and waved. I must have looked like such a dork, standing there staring at them. I waved meekly back at her through the dusty glass.

My trance was broken by an elderly woman sitting at the next table. “That lady dropped something,” she said, pointing under the table.

I bent to retrieve a small, burgundy notebook. It looked well worn and was soft to the touch, like skin. The cover had the initials PD embossed in gold, the same gold edging the pages. I gingerly opened it to the first page, looking for Pauline’s address or number, and accidentally caught a glimpse of the contents: “… his mouth on me … never felt so alive … it shot through me like a white-hot … coming over me in waves, swirling … bent me over the …”

I slapped the diary shut.

“You might be able to catch her,” said the woman, slowly chewing a pastry. I noticed she was missing a front tooth.

“Probably too late,” I said. “I’ll … just hold on to it. She’s in here a lot.”

The woman shrugged and pulled another strip off her croissant. I tucked the notebook into my waitressing pouch, a shiver of excitement running up my spine. For the rest of my shift, until Tracina arrived in her impatient bubble-gum haze, spiral curls bouncing in her high ponytail, the notebook felt alive in my front pocket. For the first time in a long time, New Orleans at dusk didn’t seem quite as lonely.

On my walk home, I counted the years. It had been six since Scott and I first came to New Orleans from Detroit to start over. Housing was cheap and Scott had just lost the last job he ever hoped to hold in the auto industry. We both thought a fresh start in a new city looking to rebuild itself after a hurricane would be a good backdrop for a marriage hoping to do the same thing.

We found a cute little blue house on Dauphine Street, in Marigny, where other young people were flocking. I had some luck finding a job as a vet’s assistant at an animal shelter in Metairie. But Scott blew through several positions on the rigs and then he blew two years of sobriety when a night of drinking turned into a two-week bender. After he hit me for the second time in two years, I knew it was over. I suddenly got the sense of how much effort it had taken him to hold off hitting me since the first time he’d taken a drunken fist to my face. I moved a few blocks away to a one-bedroom apartment, the first and only place I looked at.

One night a few months later, Scott called to see if I’d meet him at Café Rose so he could make amends for his behavior, and I agreed. He’d stopped drinking, he said, this time for good. But his apologies sounded hollow and his demeanor still flinty and defensive. By the end of our meal I was fighting back tears and he was standing over me hissing a final few sorrys over my lowered head.

“I do mean it. I know I don’t sound sorry, but in my heart, Cassie, I live every day with what I did to you. I don’t know how to make you get over it,” he said, and then he stormed out.

Of course he left me with the bill.

On my way out, I noticed the job posting for a lunch waitress. I had long been thinking about quitting my job at the vet clinic. There I took care of the cats and walked the dogs on the afternoon shift, but the post-Katrina strays weren’t getting adopted, so my job mostly consisted of shaving spots on the skinny legs of otherwise healthy animals in preparation for euthanasia. I began to hate going to work every day. I hated looking into those sad, tired eyes. That night I filled out an application for the restaurant.

That was also the night the road washed out near Parlange, and Scott drove his car into False River and drowned.

I did wonder whether it was an accident or a suicide, but fortunately our insurance company didn’t question it—he was sober, after all. And since the guardrails had rusted at the bolts, I received a healthy settlement from the county. But what was Scott doing out there that night anyway? It was so like him to make a grandiose exit that would leave me laden with guilt. I wasn’t happy to see him dead. But I wasn’t sad either. And it was there, in that numb limbo, that I had remained ever since.

Two days after flying back from his funeral in Ann Arbor—where I sat alone because Scott’s family blamed me for his death—I got a phone call from Will. At first, his voice kind of threw me, its timbre so much like Scott’s, minus the slurring.

“Am I speaking with Cassie Robichaud?”

“You are. Who’s this?”

“My name’s Will Foret. I own Café Rose? You dropped off a résumé last week. We’re looking for someone to start right away for the breakfast and lunch shift. I know you don’t have a lot of experience, but I got a good vibe from you when we met the other day, and—”

A good vibe?

“When did we meet?”

“When you, uh, dropped off your résumé.”

“I’m sorry, of course I remember. Sorry, yes, I could come in on Thursday.”

“Thursday’s good. How about ten-thirty. I’ll show you the ropes.”

Forty-eight hours later, I was shaking Will’s hand, and shaking my head at the fact that I actually hadn’t remembered him—that’s how out of it I’d been that night. We joke about it now (“Yeah, the time I completely bowled you over with my first impression, that you don’t even remember!”), but I was in such a fog after that fight with Scott that I could have spoken with Brad Pitt and failed to notice. So meeting Will again, I was taken aback at how unassumingly handsome he was.

Will didn’t promise I’d make great money; the Café is just a bit north of the hot spots, and isn’t open at night. He mentioned something about expanding upstairs, but that was years away.

“Mostly locals hang out and eat here. Tim and the guys from Michael’s bike shop. Lotta musicians. Some you’ll find sleeping in the doorway because they’ve played on the stoop all night. Local characters who like to linger for hours. But they all drink a lot of coffee.”

“Sounds good.”

His job training consisted of an unenthusiastic tour where he pointed and mumbled instructions on how to use the dishwasher and the coffee grinder and where he kept the cleaning supplies.

“City says you have to wear your hair tied back. Other than that, I’m not too picky. We don’t have uniforms, but it’s a fast turnaround at lunch, so be practical.”

“ ‘Practical’ is my middle name,” I said.

“I do plan to renovate,” he said, when he saw me noticing a chip in the tile floor and, later, a wobbly ceiling fan. The place was run-down but homey and only a ten-minute walk from my apartment at Chartres and Mandeville. He told me he named it Café Rose after Rose Nicaud, an ex-slave who used to sell her own blend of coffee from a cart on the streets of New Orleans. Will was distantly related to her on his mother’s side, he said.

“You should see our family reunion pictures. It’s like a group shot from the United Nations. Every color represented … So? You want the job?”

I nodded enthusiastically, and Will shook my hand again.

After that, my life shrunk to a few essential blocks of Marigny. Maybe I’d go to Tremé to hear Angela Rejean, one of Tracina’s friends who worked at Maison. Or I’d wander antique or second-hand shops on Magazine. But I rarely went beyond those neighborhoods, and stopped going to the Museum of Art or Audubon Park altogether. In fact, it may be strange to say, but I could have gone the rest of my life in the city without ever seeing the water.

I did mourn. After all, Scott was the first and only man I’d ever been with. I’d break down crying at odd times, while on a bus or in the middle of brushing my teeth. Waking from a long nap in a darkened bedroom always triggered tears. But it wasn’t just Scott I mourned. I mourned the loss of nearly fifteen years of my life spent listening to his constant put-downs and complaints. And that’s what I was left with. I didn’t know how to shut off the critical voice that, in Scott’s absence, continued to note my flaws and highlight my mistakes. How come you haven’t joined a gym? No one wants a woman over thirty-five. All you do is watch TV. You could be so much prettier if you just made an effort. Five Years.

I threw myself into work. The pace suited me well. We served the only breakfast on the street, nothing fancy: eggs any way, sausage, toast, fruit, yogurt, pastries and croissants. Lunch was never elaborate: soups and sandwiches, or sometimes a one-pot dish like bouillabaisse, lentil stew or a jambalaya if Dell came in early and felt like whipping something up. She was a better cook than a waitress, but she couldn’t stand being in the kitchen all day.

I only worked four days a week, from nine to four, sometimes later if I stuck around for a meal and a visit with Will. If Tracina was running late, I’d start her tables for her. I never complained. I always kept busy.

I could have made more money in the afternoons, but I liked the morning shift. I loved hosing the night’s dirt off the grimy sidewalk first thing in the morning. I loved how the sun freckled the patio tables. I loved stocking the pastry display case, while the coffee brewed and the soup simmered. I loved taking my time to cash out, spreading my money on one of the tippy tables by the big front windows. But there was always something lonely about heading home.

My life began to take on a steady, reliable rhythm: work, home, read, sleep. Work, home, read, sleep. Work, movie, home, read, sleep. It wouldn’t have taken a superhuman effort to shift out of it, but I just couldn’t make a change.

I thought that after a while I would automatically start living again, dating even. I thought there’d be a magical day when the rut would fill itself in, and I’d join the world again. Like a switch would turn on. The idea of taking a course crossed my mind. Finishing my degree. But I was too numb to commit. I was slouching towards middle age with no brakes on, my fat calico cat, Dixie, a former stray, aging right along with me.

“You say you have a fat cat like it’s something that she caused,” Scott used to say to me. “She didn’t get here fat. You did this to her.”

Scott didn’t give in to Dixie and her constant whining for food. Me, however, she worked over until I caved, again and again. I had no resolve, which is probably why I put up with Scott for so long. It took me a while to realize that I didn’t cause his drinking, nor could I stop it, but there was this lingering sense that I might have saved him if I had tried hard enough.

Maybe if we had had a baby like he wanted. I never told him how secretly relieved I was to learn that I couldn’t have kids. Surrogacy was an option, but it was too expensive to be a viable one for us, and thankfully Scott wasn’t keen on adoption. That I never wanted to be a mother was never in dispute. But I still hoped for a sense of purpose in life, for something to take up that space that a yearning for children had never occupied.

A few months after I started working at the Café, and way before Tracina stole his heart, Will hinted that he could get tickets for a coveted show at the jazz festival. At first, I thought he was going to tell me about a girlfriend he was getting the tickets for, but as it turned out, it was me he wanted to go with. I felt a flash of panic at the invitation.

“So … you’re asking if I’ll go out with you?”

“Uh … yes.” There was that look again, and for a second I thought I even saw hurt flicker through his eyes. “Front row, Cassie. Come on. It’s a good excuse to put on a dress. I’ve never seen you in a dress, come to think of it.”

I knew then that I had to shut it down. I couldn’t date. I couldn’t date him. My boss. There was no way I wanted to lose a job I actually liked for a man who would, when he spent a bit of time with me, see just how dull I really was. Also, the man was way out of my league. I was paralyzed with fear and the prospect of being alone with him, outside the context of our working relationship.

“You haven’t seen me in a dress because I don’t own one,” I said.

Not true. I just couldn’t imagine putting one on. Will was quiet for a few seconds, wiping his hands on his apron.

“No big deal,” he said. “Lots of people want to see this band.”

“Will, look. I think being married to such a wreck for so many years might have rendered me kind of … undatable,” I said, sounding like a late-night radio psychologist.

“That’s a nice way of saying, ‘It’s not you, it’s me.’ ”

“But it is me. It is.”

I rested my hand on his forearm.

“I guess I’ll just ask the next attractive girl I hire,” he joked.

And he did. He asked the stunning Tracina from Texarkana, with the Southern accent and the endless legs. She had a younger brother with autism who she fiercely cared for, and she owned more cowboy boots than any one person needs. She was hired for the early evening shift, and though she was always a little cool towards me, we got along well enough and she seemed to make Will happy. Saying good-night to him became doubly lonely because I knew he’d probably be spending the night at Tracina’s instead of upstairs at the Café. Not that I was jealous. How could I be jealous? Tracina was exactly the kind of girl Will should be with—funny, smart and sexy. She had perfect cocoa-colored skin. Sometimes she’d let her afro go wild like a mound of cotton candy, and sometimes she’d expertly tame it into cool braids. Tracina was sought after. Tracina was vivacious. Tracina fit in and belonged. I simply did not.

That night, the notebook still warming my front pocket, I watched Tracina set up for the dinner crowd. It was the first time I admitted I actually was a little jealous of her. Not because she had Will. I was jealous of how she made her way around the room with such ease and appeal. Some women had that thing, that ability to insert themselves directly into life—and look so good doing it. They weren’t observers; they were in the middle of the action. They were … alive. Will asked her out and she said, “I’d love to.” No dithering, no equivocating, just a big fat yes.

I thought about the notebook, the words I had scanned, that man at the table, the way he caressed his partner’s wrist and kissed her fingers. How he fingered her bracelet, his urgency. I wished some man could feel that for me. I thought of a fistful of thick hair in my hands, my back pressed against a wall in the kitchen of the restaurant, a hand lifting my skirt. Wait a second, the man with Pauline had a shaved head. I was imagining Will’s hair, Will’s mouth …

“A penny for your thoughts,” Will said, interrupting my absurd daydream.

“These ones are worth a lot more than a penny,” I said, knowing my face was shot red. Where had that come from? My shift was over. It was time to go.

“Good tips today?”

“Yeah, not bad. I gotta run, and, Will, I don’t care if you are sleeping with her. Tell Tracina to restock sugar on the table before she goes home tonight. They should be full for my breakfast shift.”

“Yes, boss,” he said, saluting me. Then, as I was heading out the door, he added, “Plans tonight?”

Catching up on TV. Recycling is piling up. What else?

“Yeah, big plans,” I said.

“You should have a date with a man, not with a cat, Cassie. You’re a lovely woman, you know.”

“Lovely? You didn’t just call me ‘lovely.’ Will, that’s what guys say to women over thirty-five who haven’t gone completely to pot but who are well on their way to romantic retirement. ‘You’re a lovely woman, but …’ ”

“But nothing. Cassie, you should get out there,” he said, jerking his chin towards the front door and beyond.

“That’s precisely where I’m headed,” I said, backing into the street and nearly getting sideswiped by a speeding cyclist.

“Cassie! Jeez!” Will lurched towards me.

“See? That’s what happens when I put myself out there. I get flattened,” I said, calming my heart and trying to laugh it off.

Will shook his head as I turned and made my way down Frenchmen. I thought I felt him standing there watching me walk away, but I was too shy to turn around and check.