[robin_reala]

The first time Patrick tries to book a table:

I clear my throat. “Um, yes, I know it’s a little late but is it possible to reserve a table for two at eight-thirty or nine perhaps?” I’m asking this with both eyes shut tight.

There is a pause – the crowd in the background a surging, deafening mass – and with real hope coursing through me I open my eyes, realizing that the maître d’, god love him, is probably looking through the reservation book for a cancellation – but then he starts giggling, low at first but it builds to a high-pitched crescendo of laughter which is abruptly cut off when he slams down the receiver.