Thursday, quarter past eight at the school gate. Nikos has the ring in his jacket and nowhere to take her on Saturday. "A hundred and twenty," he says, "and I owe you forever. Two of us, that is all." Your sister has picked the big place on the harbour, so the other two are spare, and dropping either one now costs you eighty euros. The small one on the square, twelve tables, has had a fully booked sign in the window since Tuesday, which nobody can explain in October with the season over. His boy is at yours tomorrow, same as every Friday, and Nikos is still standing there.
Three Tables, One Saturday