She notices Jesse notices at nine-fifteen. I am at the coffee station, second hour of the shift, the breakfast rush giving way to the mid-morning lull .... that specific hour of a diner's day when the pace slows enough that the people in it become visible to each other again. Jesse comes to the station beside me to reload the decaf and she glances at me the way she always glances, the peripheral, comprehensive check that she performs so naturally it no longer looks like looking. She goes still. Fills the decaf. Glances again, less peripherally. I do not acknowledge that I have noticed her noticing. I pour my coffee. I cap the pot. I move to head back to the floor. "Your posture is different," Jesse says. I stop. "What?" She looks at me with the focused attention she brings to
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