In Which Milly Brings a Mop and I Learn Something About Fear

Milly shows up at 6:14 AM with a mop, a bucket, and the kind of energy that suggests sleep is for people who don't have health inspections bearing down on them like judgment from on high.

I'm still holding my first cup of coffee—a simple drip, dark roast Colombian, because mornings require reliability before they can handle complexity—when she shoulders through the door with enough force to make the bell protest. Behind her, the March sky is that particular shade of gray that can't decide if it wants to rain or just threaten to rain indefinitely, and Milly herself is wearing an apron that says "MILLY'S DINER — SINCE 1987" and an expression that suggests she's already mad at something I haven't done yet.

"Your baseboards," she says, by way of greeting.

"Good morning to you too?"

"Your baseboards." She sets the bucket down with a clang that makes me flinch and gestures at the wall behind the counter with the mop handle like she's a general indicating enemy territory. "When's the last time you cleaned behind those?"

I look at the baseboards. They look like baseboards. Painted