It was nearly nine-thirty by the time the brown floral monster was safely secured in the back of Ethan's truck with two frayed bungee cords.
They had driven it straight to a local recycling drop-off center near the industrial park, only to find out the gates were locked for the night. Left with no other choice, Ethan had parked the truck in the alley behind the record store, leaving the couch sitting in the bed covered with an old blue tarp to keep the drizzle off it.
Now, they were sitting in a booth at Dave's Diner, a twenty-four-hour joint three blocks down from the bakery. The place was mostly empty, lit by buzzing yellow fluorescent tubes overhead, and smelled strongly of burnt coffee and frying oil.
Ethan was sitting on the cracked vinyl bench, staring blankly at a plate containing a massive double cheeseburger and a mountain of crinkle-cut fries. His arms felt like two bags of wet sand, and his fingers were still trembling slightly from the exertion.
"Eat," Maya said, sitting across from him. She was already halfway through a plate of chocolate pancakes covered in syrup. "You look like a ghost."
Ethan picked up a fry and shoved it into his mouth. "My lower back is never going to recover from this. I'm going to walk like an old man for the rest of my life."
"You already walk like an old man," she said without missing a beat, pouring more syrup onto her pancakes. "So really, nothing's changed."
"Hey," Ethan protested weakly, taking a big bite of his burger. The food was warm, greasy, and absolutely incredible after three hours of manual labor. "I helped you move a three-hundred-pound relic. Show some respect."
"I bought you a burger, didn't I?" she pointed out, gesturing at his plate with her fork. "That's ultimate respect in my book."
They ate quietly for a few minutes. The sound of the rain outside was louder here, drumming steadily against the big glass windows that looked out onto the dark, wet street. Every now and then, a car would drive past, its headlights casting quick, distorted yellow shapes across their table.
Ethan chewed his food, looking across at Maya. Her hair was still a bit messy from the stairwell ordeal, and she had a small smudge of dark dirt on the side of her chin that she clearly hadn't noticed yet.
"What?" she asked, catching him staring.
"Nothing," Ethan said quickly, looking down at his plate and picking up another fry. "Just... dirty chin."
Maya reached up and wiped her left cheek. "Here?"
"No, the other side. Lower. Near your jaw."
She wiped it with her napkin, checking the paper. "Got it?"
"Yeah. Got it."
She set the napkin down and leaned her elbows on the Formica table, holding her warm mug of coffee with both hands. "Thanks for tonight, Ethan. Seriously. Sarah would've been totally screwed if you didn't bring the truck."
"It's fine," Ethan said, scratching his cheek. "Honestly... it was better than sitting at home watching YouTube."
"High praise," she chuckled dryly. "Competing with YouTube. I feel honored."
"You know what I mean," he said, feeling a tiny bit awkward again. "I don't really do much on Tuesday nights usually."
"Neither do I," Maya said, looking out the window at the empty street. "Usually I just fall asleep on the couch watching re-runs of kitchen competitions by eight-thirty. My life is super thrilling."
"At least you bake stuff," Ethan said. "I just listen to people complain that thirty dollars is too much for an original printing of a Bowie record."
"Speaking of complaining..." Maya looked back at him, a mischievous flicker in her eyes. "Julian sent me a text like twenty minutes ago while we were loading the truck."
Ethan stopped mid-bite. "He did?"
"Yeah. He wanted to know if I was 'still available for that audio demonstration' later this week. Said he could get us private access to their soundproof room."
Ethan felt that familiar, petty annoyance rise up in his chest again. "What did you say?"
Maya picked up her phone from the table, tapped the screen a couple of times, and turned it around to show him.
The text thread was short.
Julian: Hey Maya! Still hoping we can do that hi-fi demo this Thursday? Got some incredible new Japanese pressings in. Let me know!
Maya: Can't. Helping Ethan haul scrap metal in his truck.
Ethan blinked at the screen, then looked up at her. "Scrap metal?"
"The couch basically counts as scrap metal," she said with a deadpan face. "Besides, it sounded more important."
Ethan couldn't help it—a real, genuine laugh burst out of him, loud enough that the night-shift waitress near the counter looked over at them. "You're terrible."
"Hey, it worked. He hasn't replied yet," she said, pocketing her phone with a satisfied smirk.
They finished their food around ten-fifteen. Ethan insisted on paying the tip since Maya paid for the meal, dropping three crumpled five-dollar bills onto the table before they slid out of the booth.
When they stepped outside, the air was cold and crisp. The heavy rain had finally stopped, leaving behind a thick fog that rolled low over the wet sidewalks.
"You need a ride back to your place?" Ethan asked, shoving his hands into his hoodie pockets as they walked toward his truck parked down the block.
"Nah, I live like four blocks that way," Maya said, pointing down 5th Street. "Walking will help me digest those six pounds of chocolate pancakes."
"You sure?"
"Yeah. It's nice out now." She stopped near the corner under a flickering streetlamp, pulling her hands into the sleeves of her green flannel shirt. "Thanks again, Ethan. I owe you one."
"Don't worry about it," Ethan said. "Just... bring more of those jalapeño scones on Friday."
"Deal," she said, giving him a small, warm wave. "Get some sleep, grease monkey. You look like you're gonna pass out on the sidewalk."
Ethan watched her walk away down 5th Street, her heavy boots making quiet crunch-crunch sounds on the damp pavement until she disappeared into the yellow glow of the streetlights.
He walked back to his truck, unlocked the door, climbed inside, and sat there in the dark cab for a long minute without turning the key. His arms ached, his right sock was still damp, and he smelled like old upholstery, but as he turned the key and heard the engine cough to life, he thought to himself that it really hadn't been a bad Tuesday after all.
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