It's the breakfast buffet at 7:45, with scrambled eggs in watery pans, toast curling by the instant coffee, home fries tossed in sodden heaps. The couple at the window table are not speaking. Her gaze is fastened on the parking lot: his eyes are with the waitress. "American Pie" sings goodbye from somewhere. When he was fourteen, she was twelve; they spent the summer running in and out of each other's yards. They climbed up to his treehouse, sticky palms from oozing sap, thunder rolling down like boulders, his father yelling from the porch to get their asses back inside before the lightning fried 'em alive. She kissed him on the cheek and ran for home. He squinted through the rain at her flashing legs and knew he'd always follow. He would trace her face's shape down to her smile. He'd been sparing with his words; he'd pared it down to simple touch. But forty years along the kids are gone, the business sold, and he knows what she will say and she's heard everything he knows, and there isn't any cause to look for wonder any more.