Everyone had left the café except an old man who sat in the shadow the leaves of the tree made against the electric light.
“Last week he tried to commit suicide,” one waiter said.
“Because he was in despair.”
“I wish he would go home. I never get to bed before three o’clock. What kind of hour is that to go to bed?”
“He stays up because he likes it.”
“He’s lonely. I’m not lonely. I have a wife waiting in bed for me.”
“He had a wife once too.”
“A wife would be no good to him now.”
“You can’t tell. He might be better with a wife.”
“I wouldn’t want to be that old. An old man is a nasty thing.”
“Not always. This old man is clean. He drinks without spilling. Even now, drunk. Look at him."
The waiter watched him go down the street, a very old man walking unsteadily but with dignity.
“What is an hour?”
“More to me than to him.”
“An hour is the same.”
“You have youth, confidence, and a job,” the old waiter said. “You have everything.”
Our nada who art in nada, nada be thy name thy kingdom nada thy will be nada in nada as it is in nada. Give us this nada and our daily nada and nada us our nada as nada our nadas and nada us not into nada but deliver us from nada; pues nada. Hail nothing full of nothing, nothing is with thee.