Fourteen Years and a Single Ledger from the Autumn Election

hours.

Clara, the waitress who had served us for years, brought over a small ceramic teapot and a cup.

“No folders today, Eleanor?” she asked, looking at the bare tabletop.

“No folders, Clara,” I said. “Just the tea.”

“It looks strange seeing you without a yellow legal pad,” she said, pouring the hot water.

“It feels strange,” I said. “But it is a good continue reading …