The first hour was a managed disaster. He got the order pad system wrong twice, brought the wrong set to table four, and spent three minutes looking for the tray rack before Yuki appeared at his elbow and pointed at it without a word.
"It's always there," she said. "Same place every night."
"Right," he said. "Sorry."
She looked at him for a moment — not unkindly, just directly.
"Don't apologize. Just remember."
She moved off to greet a couple coming through the door, and Hiroto stood holding the tray rack he had just located and thought about the word remember in a way that had nothing to do with tray racks.
He shook it off. He had dishes to carry.
— ✦ —
By the second hour he had found a rhythm. The restaurant was not large — eight tables, a short counter with four seats, a kitchen he was not yet allowed near. Yuki managed the floor with a quiet authority that the regulars clearly trusted; Hiroto followed her directions and tried to be useful without getting in her way.
Her directions were brief and precise.
"Table three is ready. Two teishoku, one miso."
"The couple by the window want water. Take the small jug."
"That table is finished. Clear it before the 7 o'clock booking arrives."
He followed each one without question. There was something almost restful about it — having someone simply tell him what to do next, clearly and without expectation beyond the task itself. He didn't have to think about anything larger. Just the next table, the next tray, the next thing she pointed him toward.
This is the first time in a long time, he thought, that I've been somewhere and known exactly what was expected of me.
It was a small thing. But small things, he was beginning to remember, were sometimes enough.