They Regret Saying Unlimited
Ninety minutes is not a limit. It is a target.
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"There's a sign."
She read it out from the door, the way she read out things she had already decided about. All You Can Eat. Ninety Minutes. Please Do Not Waste Food.
"That last one is practically an instruction."
"It's practically a dare."
She was already taking a tray.
The staff learned her before the regulars did.
By the fourth Sunday the man on the carvery had started plating hers without being asked. By the seventh, the chair at their table had been quietly replaced with a chair from a different part of the room, and nobody mentioned the swap.
That is the thing about places built for volume. They accommodate you without comment, and the lack of comment is how you stop noticing.
"Do you think they talk about me."
He said no.
They talked about her. He had heard two of them do it by the coffee machine, and in the four seconds afterward he decided she would never find out. He understood that this had been a decision and not an oversight. He went back to the table and told her the beef was better today.
"Fine. Then get me the other plate as well."
The dress had been bought for this restaurant, in this size, four months ago.
"Ninety minutes," she said, with sauce on her wrist and no intention of stopping. "That's not a limit. That's a target."
"That's my good eater."
She reached for the tray again.
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