Orange Wine

You take a stool. Jean sets a glass of orange wine in front of you and goes back to her polishing.

At the far end the man in the vest has his phone flat on the bar, the screen white with frost. He swipes a finger across it, fast, and a band of the white wipes clear. He does it again. Two soft notes sound, and he reads. He says one word of it under his breath, and it leaves his mouth lettered and glowing, rises through the room and settles into the left column of the ledger, with a 1 beside it.

He copies the line into his notebook and taps his pen on the page, twice.

You watch the right-hand column a while. The numbers go up, and none goes down. There is a word in your mouth. You could say it.