They are waiting, the two of them, for the restaurant to open, unmoving and unspeaking, at one of those green plastic patio tables that has been left, stripped of its umbrella, overnight. She is holding her purse on her lap with both hands, clasping it shut with both hands, and she looks steadfastly forward, as if any movement might betray her secrets. Her husband’s posture is more resigned, more broken. He is not waiting for the restaurant at all. He is waiting for her. He does nothing else but wait for her, has done nothing else for longer than he can remember. Their gray hairs have been exchanged, one for another, one by one, each day, each of a thousand days, like a currency for past disappointments, like a ledger of bygone grievances, and he is losing.