La fiesta de cumpleaños.
El camarero llevando el postre.
The soft music.
Richard’s face when I shouted for an ambulance.
There was something else.
Algo que no pude alcanzar.
Intenté dibujar el comedor en una hoja de papel.
Tabla cuatro.
El bar.
La puerta de la cocina.
La estación de servicio donde los servidores recogían gafas limpias.
Mientras dibujaba, apareció un recuerdo.
A young server named Mia had been working beside me.
She’d complained that Richard had taken her tray away.
Not unusual.
Richard interfirió frecuentemente con el personal.
But that night, Mia had been especially irritated.
“He said nobody else was allowed to serve table four,” she’d muttered.
Then she had added, “He even took the glass I already polished.”
My pencil stopped moving.
I remembered looking at the glass on Dominic’s table.
It had been spotless.
Not even a fingerprint.
Llamé a Dominic.
“¿Puedes encontrar a Mia?”
