They Keep Saying Unlimited

They wrote the sign. She read it as a dare.

Ninety minutes

“There’s a sign.” She read it out from the door, the way she read out things she had already decided about.

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The staff learned her before the regulars did. By the fourth Sunday the man on the carvery had started plating hers without being asked, and by the seventh the chair at their table had been quietly swapped for a sturdier one. Ninety minutes was never a limit. Press the button and let her prove it.

Every stage of the sequence

Ninety minutes. “There’s a sign.” She read it out from the door, the way she read out things she had already decided about.
Still going back. The dress had been bought for this restaurant, in this size, four months ago. “That’s not a limit. That’s a target.”

Sauce on her wrist, four months of Sundays behind her, and no intention of stopping.