Havenhold 
Sunday is when the hall is almost empty and Lena walks the short stakes. I cook if I am not on a train. One pot. It sits on the table. It is not a bell that calls people in from the canal.
Luuk was the only one last time. He washed his bowl and did not ask the number. She told him later that the number was twelve, which is the kind of news this place actually runs on. Not who won. How many stakes.
I will not turn it into a standing supper. Standing suppers acquire speeches. We have Friday for the twenty minutes, and even that has to be defended from becoming a second meeting about the meeting.
If the train is kind this Sunday the pot is real and I will say so in the morning, on the board, not in a whisper. If the train is not kind, eat bread and do not invent a story in which I promised you lunch.