The regulars have assigned seats, which they assigned

Nobody at Trestle is assigned a seat. The regulars have simply decided, among themselves and without a meeting, where each of them sits, and the rest of us have learned to honor it.

The window two-top is taken on weekday mornings, with the paper. The stool at the end of the bar belongs to the man who asks after Number Nine by name and gets the good mug for it. The big table by the dock door is whoever brought a laptop and a deadline, until 11, when it reverts to the knitting.

We did not make these rules. They accreted, the way a path wears into grass. When a newcomer sits in someone's spot, nothing is said. There is only a small, patient recalibration in the room, and usually the newcomer feels it and moves, and never quite knows why.

The seats are not on any chart. They are on this one, now, which changes nothing, because the regulars do not read the journal. They are too busy sitting.