Five minutes later, I’ve set up my mobile office at the glorious, big table, devoured all the free biscotti, thank you very much, and swallowed half my second cup of coffee. Ten minutes after that, the place is jumping with commuters, yet there’s no sign of the Table Thief. In between hostilities, he’d mentioned he “spreads out his visits,” so maybe he’s off to the next coffee shop on his rotation. I’ll be pissed if I got up early and went to all this trouble for nothing; is it so wrong that I want him to show up, witness his own defeat, and feel the loss of the good table before exiting my café and my life?

I’m downing my last dregs of coffee when who should walk in but Mr. Personality. He scans the room and his gaze rests on me.

“Not today, Satan,” I mutter triumphantly.

His brown eyes whip toward mine. “What’d you say?”

“Uh, I said, ‘Seat’s taken.’ ”

“I can see that. Given that you’re sitting in it.”

“Just wanted to make sure we’re clear. I’ll be here all day, by the way, so don’t get any ideas that you can, like, wait me out.”

“Well, Fifty Shades can’t watch itself,” he says disdainfully.

“Excuse me?”

“Six straight hours of mommy porn is admirably rigorous.”

“I have no idea what you’re—oh. The Weeknd.” Dammit, Clifford! “Uh, it was a parody video,” I stammer.

“Parody porn is underrated,” he says condescendingly.

“I didn’t come here to watch porn,” I hiss.

“Just do me a favor and keep the volume down, okay? Some of us are here to work.”

Asshole!

“Miles, your order’s up,” Evelynn chimes in.

Miles, eh? So, he’s got a name. But he doesn’t have a place to sit. Every table’s occupied, and more customers are piling in. He busies himself adding cream and sugar to his coffee while scanning the café for the next available place to sit. Unfortunately, the cream and sugar station is right next to me. I sense his gaze roving around and glance over in time to see him pour roughly half the café’s sugar supply into his mug. (And I thought he was tense before? He is going to Hulk Out when his blood sugar spikes.)

Out of nowhere, “Last Dance with Mary Jane” by Tom Petty pours out of my speakers. Not again!

A video chat box hijacks my screen.

I try to press Do Not Accept as fast as humanly possible, but in my haste I click Accept by accident.

“Should Frank get his own Instagram page, and if so, what should the sub-theme be?” Mary shouts.

I manage to hang up while dozens of eyes swing toward me in irritation.