He leaned against the door, soaking in the quiet. He had the job well in hand and went about it as if he'd done it all his life. Even so, there were moments, especially when he was alone at closing with no one around to drag him from his thoughts, that he marveled over this peculiarly ordinary pattern he'd settled into. It hadn't seemed possible for a while that life could assume a steady, commonplace shape again. Yet here he was, in an alien world that was taking on the feel of home. Broom in hand, he walked the length of the restaurant, running a mental checklist to make sure he'd done everything. After one last glance around, he put the broom away and hung up his apron. Treading gingerly on the creaky step, he noted that the light was already off under Ida's door. She went to bed earlier, trusting him to clean up and close. Esther had left at eight to stay the night with a cousin in Brooklyn and attend church in the morning. Ida closed on Sundays because, as she had mentioned more than once, decent folk ate Sunday dinners with their families.
