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bar and placed the ticket faceup on the ledge of a reach—through, where the hand of the kitchen’s expeditor took the ticket and impaled it on a wheel. She heard Raphael call her name and she walked around the bar to where he stood and the man sat, his ringless hand touching a cold bottle of Dos Equis beer.
    “You remember this guy?” said Raphael.
    “Sure,” she said, and then Raphael moved away, just left her there like that, went to a deuce along the wall to greet its two occupants. She’d have to remind Raphael of his manners the next time she got him alone.
    “So,” the man said in a slow, gravelly way. “Did you find your Jorge Amado?”
    “I did find it. Thank you, yes.”
    “We got
Tereza Batista
in last week. It’s in that paper series Avon put out a few years back —”
    “I’ve read it,” she said, too abruptly. She was nervous, and showing it; it wasn’t like her to react this way in front of a man. She looked over her shoulder. She had only the one table left for the evening, and her diners seemed satisfied, nursing their drinks. She cleared her throat and said, “Listen —”
    “It’s okay,” he said, swiveling on his stool to face her. He had a wide mouth parenthesized by lines going down to a strong chin. His eyes were green and they were direct and damaged, and somehow needy, and the eyes completed it for her, and scared her a little bit, too.
    “What’s
okay?” she said.
    “You don’t have to stand here if you don’t want to. You can go back to work if you’d like.”
    “No, that’s all right. I mean, I’m fine. It’s just that —”
    “Juana, right?” He leaned forward and cocked his head.
    He was moving very quickly, and it crossed her mind that what she had taken for confidence in his walk might have been conceit.
    “I don’t remember telling you my name the day we met.”
    “Raphael told me.”
    “And now you’re going to tell me you like the way it sounds. That my name sings, right?”
    “It
does
sing. But that’s not what I was going to say.”
    “What, then?”
    “I was going to ask if you like oysters.”
    “Yes. I like them.”
    “Would you like to have some with me down at Crisfield’s, after you get off?”
    “Just like that? I don’t even know —”
    “Look here.” He put his right hand up, palm out. “I’ve been thinking about you on and off since that day you walked into the bookstore. I’ve been thinking about you
all
day today. Now, I believe in being to the point, so let me ask you again: Would … you … like … to step
out
with me, after your shift, and have a bite to eat?”
    “Juana!” said the expeditor, his head in the reach—through. “Is up!”
    “Excuse me,” she said.
    She went to the ledge of the reach—through and retrieved a small bowl of chili
con queso,
filled a red plastic basket with chips, and served the four—top its appetizer. As she was placing the
queso
and chips on the table, she looked back at the bar, instantly sorry that she had. The man was smiling at her full on. She tossed her long hair off her shoulder self—consciously and was sorry she had done that, too. She walked quickly back to the bar.
    “You’re sure of yourself, eh?” she said when she reached him, surprised to feel her arms folded across her chest.
    “I’m confident, if that’s what you mean.”
    “Overconfident, maybe.”
    He shrugged. “You like what you see, otherwise you wouldn’t have stood here as long as you did. And you sure wouldn’t have come back. I like what
I
see. That’s what I’m
doing
here. And listen, Raphael can vouch for me. It’s not like we’re going to walk out of here and I’m gonna grow fangs. So why don’t we try it out?”
    “You must be drunk,” she said, nodding at the beer bottle in his hand.
    “On wine and love.” He saw her perplexed face and said, “It’s a line from a western.”
    “Okay.”
    He shot a look at her crossed arms. “You’re gonna wrinkle your uniform, you keep