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see the change in him, see how Ed was so much better, that the intensity of his summer with Lee was doomed to burn out? He’d have to explain it to Lee, just to get that hurt look off his squirrelly face.

    Lee did much better than his first days. Armed with Kevin’s competence and disarming glances, he managed to serve without a mishap, and coasted on a small wave of pride as he finished clearing after the main course, having spilled nary a crumb in Caroline’s lap. Walking swiftly to the drop off station, however, he miscalculated the distance to the Hefty Bag-lined milk crates, and his plateful of used silverware clattered to the marble floor.

    Ze Hell’z Bellz.

    “Are we gravity-impaired?” whined Lenny, a plastic quart bottle of diet Pepsi clutched in his stubby hand.

    “Sorry.” Lee leaned down to retrieve the spilt silver, but succeeded in blocking the line of waiters behind, resulting in a near faux-sodomy conga line of dominos.

    “Don’t do that!” Lenny bellowed. “Keep movin’! Ya got twenty guys behind ya!” Lee stood up and rushed on to the outstretched hands of a sturdy clean-up worker, Kyle, who silently yanked the plates from each of his hands. He’d never seen a man in a dirty white apron look so angelic. Kyle rarely spoke to waiters, at least not that Lee had seen. Rumor had it he was straight, but as he bent over in front of the slightly stunned Lee to retrieve his fallen flatware, it struck Lee as somehow tragic to think that no male tongue or cock had yet invaded the netherlands of such a terrific butt.

    “Keep movin’!” Lenny snarled after him like an inflated bridge troll.

    Lee wiped his hands and rushed swiftly back to his table in flight formation. He still had four more trips to clear eight more plates. Fabulous Food technique prohibited the “tacky” use of stacking plates. Although efficient for speed, “cafeteria-style clatter” was tantamount to sacrilege.

    Following a dessert of creme brulee (“Fried sugar pus,” a young waiter joked) Brut Classic ‘80, and espresso coffee (served in cups only slightly larger than thimbles), half the wait staff was dismissed to the back region of the Library’s halls, between the kitchen and near the loading dock. They stood, sat on the floor or leaned against walls, wolfing down less elegantly served portions of the same meal on plastic plates.

    “Better hurry,” Brian called to Lee as he chewed. “They’re running out of vegetables.”

    Lee glanced down at the trays as he poured a cup of tepid soda. A few dozen browned ends of veal and soggy vegetables lay in a messy tray of juice.

    “Guess it’s nubbins of baby corn again,” he sighed.

    Unable to sit next to Brian, or between Brian and Ed, which is where he would have liked to serve as a sort of wedge, Lee sat on a milk crate in a corner next to Marcos, who finished his meal and sipped a paper cup of coffee.

    “So, what’s the story on that dish guy?” Lee asked.

    “Which one?” Marcos dabbed a napkin to his mouth.

    “I think, Kurt?”

    “Oh, Kyle.”

    “Yeah.”

    “Why, sweetface? Planning a little extra-curricular activity?”

    “Never mind my dance card. What’s he like?”

    Marcos finished his coffee, stood, and tossed his plastic plate into a trashcan. “He’s exceedingly hot, but I must warn you. His longevity lives up to his nickname.”

    “Which is?”

    “Speed Stick.”

    Most of the guests had departed from Brian’s table. Their scattered napkins circled the table like bent petals. He scanned the other tables, prowling, seeking his little gem for the evening.

    A bead-encrusted egg purse sat alone, unprotected, nestled next to a lipstick-stained wineglass. No, he thought. Whoever she is, she’ll be back for it. Whatever the hell they crammed into those things, Brian was not eager to discover. Instead, he downshifted as the ornate napkin holders caught his eye. Looped by a thick red cord, each faux-bronze lion’s head snarled in