Eulogy for Jason Z.

Finding it geographically inconvenient to stalk, service staff were the only women in his life. He made scrapbooks to remember them out of napkins and crumpled receipts, like that morning with Thalia when he dropped the fork and she picked it up and then she dropped it, and it bounced not once but twice and she smiled and her apron was black and so was her hair. Slippery Fork Morning. He prayed that she liked him as more than a customer, having known him over bunches of brunches. But no. One day he will be back, with a different name and a different face to try again.