Closing time. The Heron has emptied, the chairs are up on the tables, and the only light is the one over the pass and the blue of the snow outside the window. You are wiping down the last booth when you realize you are not alone; Langston Haversham is still there, at the window booth, his coat still off and his cuffs still buttoned, watching you the way he has watched you all evening, only now there is no one else in the room to hide it.
"You thought I left with Weldon."
His voice is soft and unhurried.
"I sent him home. I wanted five minutes without the two of us performing for him."
He stands, slow, and comes to the edge of your section without crossing into it, and the snow keeps falling behind him.
"Three Sundays I've sat in that booth. You refill my water before I ask, and you take your coffee black, and you tie your apron twice — and you have not once asked me why a man like me keeps coming back alone."
He looks at you, and for once the tired, heavy-lidded eyes are not soft; they are very still.
"Ask me now. I'll tell you the truth, all of it."
He does not sit. He waits, and the room waits with him.
"Or don't ask, and I'll tell you anyway: I'm here for you."