A man in a flash tuxedo walked past our alcove, carrying a camera with a large professional lens. He paused, raising the camera to his eye and taking a quick photograph of us sitting together under the dim light of the alcove before disappearing back into the crowd.
I looked down at my worn black service shoes, feeling the contrast between my cheap uniform and his tailored suit.
“I am thirty-two,” I said, the words slipping out before I could stop them. “And I am just very tired.”
Russell did not look away, nor did he offer the hollow pity I was used to getting from customers who left fifty-cent tips.
“You do not have to carry the weight of the whole room on your shoulders,” he said.
He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a small leather notebook and a gold pen.
“May I have your phone number, Elena?” he asked.
