Thousand: Four Hundred Sixty-Two

cheese still melting from a hole in the omelette. The innkeeper removes Bernie’s and slides from a pocket of his pantaloons a perfect orange. He lays this in the plate’s place and nods rather more significantly than had the cowboy, Bernie thinks, especially considering the addition of an exaggerated wink. He looks from Ishmael to the orange and nods, figuring he can nod too when it comes to that. If there were a cockatoo at the table the nods would be more than a few, more than a few, yes sir. Bernie glances around to see if Sir has returned.