We brought on a second waiter in July to save us - a scrawny dyed-in-the-wool Bostonian named Gianna Seacrest - and for a fleeting period in life, I enjoyed the distinction of being Jo Lazenby's favorite waiter. 

The perks weren't much - the surety of knowing that he really was waving at you, and not at divebombing midges - the little glances meant to convey the quality of the service, more sincere than magnanimous praise. On days when I changed up my serving outfit with a simple accessory, his eyeline told me that he immediately saw it. Unlike anyone else who I'd ever encountered, my imagination did not betray me, and he was every bit the man I thought.

But even then, it took easily four months before Jo ever asked for my name. That day went something like this... 

We were beset by a nor'easterly rainstorm, the kind that rattled the downtown harbor and shook the bones of every little vacant stall, and made it clear how little it regarded human spaces. Rain fell, like it had real mass and heft, and the fat droplets struck the deck like innumerable hands on a goatskin drum.

Bullwinkle and Amelia ran through their typical Abbott and Costello routine, as they fought over whether to close up the café early. It was a classic act that held your attention - at least, for the first 10 minutes or so - and they'd certainly perfected it over many, many iterations. 

Bostonians were stalwart, and between them you could find all of the variations of compensatory human behaviour. The buggy-pushers were still here, only now Baby would be riding alongside Mommy's purchase from the Apple store. A couple of strident storm enthusiasts enjoyed Americanos while screaming at each other, their duster coats flapping violently around their necks. Beneath a parasol that creaked and spun, a lone elderly historical interpreter enjoyed her rosebud tea, as if we were the deck of the Titanic in its midnight hour. 

It was over this sprawl that the two giants of industry who governed my livelihood presided. Bullwinkle was a modern-day Sisyphus who searched relentlessly for ways to clamp down on ordinary human behaviour. Amelia only believed in self-determination and turning a profit. Apart from my own dynastic clan, I had never met two people who were more staunchly American. Yet here they were, locked in fierce combat. 

"That old bird is going to fall into the ocean, and you're going to have to answer to her six distraught children," Bullwinkle warned, raising his finger.

Amelia leaned against the counter with all the gravity of a modern-day Job. "You know, she's not really Abigail Adams...she doesn't actually have six kids at home..."

I resisted the urge to point out that not all of the Adams children survived to adulthood, that they were not that other venerated American family bearing a very similar name who could simply rise out of the grave, but I demurred. They were at it for such a long time that the rain died down and intensified again, and by the time the radio crackled with rumours of the first train service disruptions, I'd already made up a plan to stir them to act. 

Bold of me to skirt my work, but I didn't really want Jo to be caught up in the storm. And I somehow knew that if we waited long enough, against all reason, he would show. 

I went down into the cellar, a split level below the storefront, as if to retrieve supplies. Counted to ten, and turned on my heel and walked right back up the dusty staircase. 

"Amelia, we've got one," I said, in my best stage whisper, peeking around the doorway for dramatic effect. And watched as the brilliant saucers of her eyes flared. 

One, as in, a rodent sighting. Amelia didn't need to know the details of this fictitious threat, and it was more compelling when she didn't know. That faceless and nameless harbinger of flooded basements would retain its mystery shroud. 

Within 20 minutes, Gianna and I had cleared out every last patron and emptied the exterior. Parasols were neatly folded down and dismantled. A raft of used tablecloths, collected and piled high in a slapdash way, threatened to topple over and onto the cash register. Display racks were moved aside, and the shallow enclave of the storefront soon filled to bulging with stacks of chairs and nests of tables, so that we could barely roll down the shutter doors over it all.

Bullwinkle, whose mind had fled the building hours ago, went swiftly down the side road and barricaded himself inside his black Jetta. Amelia, whose distracted attentions kept her flinging herself from one end of the store to the other and whose rain jacket was definitely inside out, gave me a tight hug before making her getaway on bike. 

Gianna was the last to take cover, and the last to depart. As she and I stood under the awning, she shook out the water from her short black ringlets, reached into her backpack, and handed me an impossibly large bag of breadsticks. They were homely, with a charming unevenness - clearly made for practice, and not for display. 

I put my nose into the bag, and breathed deeply - the scent was fresh and even warm, as if the oven had just switched off. 

"...And if you see one coming up to your room," she advised, gesturing for effect, "you take the bag and you strangulate the little stronzo."

She walked away in the rain, unhurried, and she may as well have been swimming, it was so heavy by now. 

I watched Gianna go, then stood under the awning for a few minutes longer, staring blankly at the rainfall - the pools of water outlining dips and imperfections in the deck, the ribbons of wind that slapped at every length of chain link and rope - and in the distance, the turbulent swelling and frothing of the water against the pilings of the dock. 

What I was waiting for, I didn't know exactly. There was something mysterious about the rain that day, like an interminable pre-show, endlessly heralding something or someone that never appeared. 

And then, he did.