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The Legs, Not the Tops
Claire wanted to tell the restaurant yes before lunch. The tables were promised for their first week of service, and the tops were already in her workshop, stacked on the north wall where she saw them every time she looked up from the bench. The tracking page was open beside her tea. The tops had come in yesterday. In her head the job was finished except for a morning of fitting legs and wiping dust.
Noor, who made the legs, called while Claire was still writing the message. "The tops are yours," Noor said. "The legs are not on a truck. The carrier will not take them until the pallet is full, and your set does not fill one."
Claire had not been watching the legs. They were the plain part. The restaurant had chosen