“Okay, what nights do you work alone?” “Sunday through Tuesday,” I reply, zipping my bag. Beau nods and says a terse, “Okay,” before spinning on his heel and giving me his back, looking every bit the military man he is. Head held high, shoulders perfectly straight. Like he’s some sort of knight in shining armor. One who starts pulling up a stool every Sunday through Tuesday to drink chamomile tea until midnight, so I don’t have to close by myself.
