"Elizabeth Moon. The Speed of Dark " - читать интересную книгу автора

six. He understands. I would understand if he and the others were ready
first. I would not want to come here and sit at another table, so I know
that Chuy will not come here and we will not have to try to squeeze him in.
A new manager last year did not understand that. He was always trying to
arrange big dinners for us and mix us up in seating. "Don't be so
hidebound," he would say. When he wasn't looking, we went back to where we
like to sit. Dale has an eye tic that bothers Linda, so she sits where she
can't see it. I think it's funny and I like to watch it, so I sit on Dale's
left, where it looks like he's winking at me.
The people who work here know us. Even when other people in the
restaurant look too long at us for our movements and the way we talk-or
don't-the people here don't ever give us that go-away look I've had other
places. Linda just points to what she wants or sometimes she writes it out
first, and they never bother her with more questions.
Tonight our favorite table is dirty. I can hardly stand to look at the
five dirty plates and pizza pans; it makes my stomach turn to think of the
smears of sauce and cheese and crust crumbs, and the uneven number makes it
worse. There is an empty table to our right, but we do not like that one.
It's next to the passage to the rest rooms, and too many people go by
behind us.
We wait, trying to be patient, as Hi-I'm-Sylvia-she has that on her
name tag, as if she were a product for sale and not a person-signals to one
of the others to clean up our table. I like her and can remember to call
her Sylvia without the Hi-I'm as long as I'm not looking at her name tag.
Hi-I'm-Sylvia always smiles at us and tries to be helpful; Hi-I'm-Jean is
the reason we don't come in on Thursdays, when she works this shift.
Hi-I'm-Jean doesn't like us and mutters under her breath if she sees us.
Sometimes one of us will come to pick up an order for the others; the last
time I did, Hi-I'm-Jean said, "At least he didn't bring all the other
freaks in here," to one of the cooks as I turned away from the register.
She knew I heard. She meant me to hear. She is the only one who gives us
trouble.
But tonight it's Hi-I'm-Sylvia and Tyree, who is picking up the plates
and dirty knives and forks as if it didn't bother him. Tyree doesn't wear a
name tag; he just cleans tables. We know he's Tyree because we heard the
others call him that. The first time I used his name to him, he looked
startled and a little scared, but now he knows us, though he doesn't use
our names.
"Be done in a minute here," Tyree says, and gives us a sidelong look.
"You doin' okay?"
"Fine," Cameron says. He's bouncing a little from heel to toe. He
always does that a little, but I can tell he's bouncing a bit faster than
usual.
I am watching the beer sign blinking in the window. It comes on in
three segments, red, green, then blue in the middle, and then goes off all
at once. Blink, red. Blink, green, blink blue, then blink red/green/blue,
all off, all on, all off, and start over. A very simple pattern, and the
colors aren't that pretty (the red is too orange for my taste and so is the
green, but the blue is a lovely blue), but still it's a pattern to watch.
"Your table's ready," Hi-I'm-Sylvia says, and I try not to twitch as I