At 8:15, someone knocked.
Denise.
Her hair was half curled.
One eye had makeup.
The other didn’t.
She looked exhausted.
“Do you still have the tables?”
“Yes.”
“The cooler?”
“Yes.”
“The rental company messed up.”
I waited.
“They delivered four chairs and no tables.”
“That sounds inconvenient.”
She glared.
“Can I borrow yours?”
I went inside.
Came back with the clipboard.
Her face fell.
“You’re still doing this?”
“Yes.”
“People are arriving in two hours.”
“Then I’d decide quickly.”
She stared at me.
“You’re enjoying this.”
I thought about lying.
“A little.”
At least I was honest.
She grabbed the pen.
“Fine.”
“Deposit first.”
She stopped.
“You’re kidding.”
“No.”
Denise disappeared across the lawn.
Five minutes later, she returned with her checkbook.
“Who even writes checks anymore?”
I smiled.
“You, apparently.”
She wrote one for $697.
I looked at it.
