the columbia review
Reservations Jared Harel
At a table for eight, I am ever one shy. Either my grandfather’s still dead, or my mother hit traffic heading back from the funeral. Our waitress has no patience for this. She’s fed us breadsticks since the beginning of time, enough refills to exhaust their faucet. You have killed a small country, the maître’ de smiles. Care for an appetizer? When the busboy bows with fresh forks to replace those rusted away, I see he’s aged into my grandfather’s face: same drowsy lips and Polish brow. Join us! I beg, seizing his shoulder, but the busboy doesn’t budge.
10