One of the bits of café lore I've accumulated tells me the way to balance a circular table. You know the type - you sit down somewhere, put your arm on the table, and thump it wants to tip back and forth. That always feels to me like something to be put right, and I'm happy to know a way to go about it.

The secret: if there are four feet on the table, then it should, mathematically, be possible, with only a rotation in place, to settle it in a way so that it does not wobble noticeably. I got a chance to apply this tidbit today, sitting in a tiny slice of sunbeam, between the patio fence and its restaurant. For the table I was claiming, it took about a third of a turn once I realized the problem.

The beer was already on its way, and I wanted to provide it with a stable home. I was not there for agitation - it was a day for a familiar atmosphere, one orderly and safe. Correcting the table helped me set that mood in myself. (Look, I'm making this thing right, right on schedule - what more could I be doing?) The beer arrived with a casual remark of appreciation for my effort, and stretching back with it felt as well-earned as any pleasure in recent memory.

I've long been fond of the place; some few Fridays a year I have a light lunch there, with some excellent beer, and some sunshine. For right about a century, the place has been there, near the midpoint of an imaginary line between the letterings in the stone of downtown buildings. ("Sears, Roebuck and Company" and "A.A.O.N.M.S".) If the place has not always been a tavern or café, it missed its calling for a while: particularly when the sun shines, it's a natural spot for refreshment. I'm sure a century before, someone else was on that spot, tipping up a beer and watching clouds scurry for no reason.

Just about a year before, I was also, briefly, in the habit of accompanying friends to that place of an evening, because the times demanded a place with excellent beer. It seems when I return there, I always sit in line of sight to where she sat that once. She was unable to do her famous fish impression that night; she couldn't quit smiling long enough, not with all us guys smiling at her. Some of the charm of her soaked into the bricks of the place that night, I think, and if I squint just right, I can still see it lettered there.

Some few months after that, I was sitting there again, and had to tell her where I was and what I was seeing. Shot out the best 159 characters of text on the topic I could muster, and smiled as I hit Send. (She told me once that she always smiles when answering the phone, because people can tell. How could I do less?) Ten minutes later, a familiar car stopped on the street, passenger window descending, and there she was. Turns out she had been driving nearby, on a break from a day at her new vocation, a day I could tell was not one that she'd wanted. I stood and leaned against the patio fence, talking rapidly, willing to toss the rest of the day if she was willin' at all. She flickered between that telephone smile at the compliment, and that face that she'd brought with her, the one that telegraphed for yards the sadness and frustration of her day.

I said everything I could to persuade her, and probably some other things as well, but so far as I can tell, she never even took the car out of gear. In minutes, she was gone, to return to her new vocation, leaving me wondering why she'd driven to me at all. I decided she'd just wanted the chance to smile her face off in the midst of a day that didn't deserve it, and was happy to have been the one who, by some chance, was there to see. (Along with that excellent fish impression - she was always better at that when she wasn't tanked.)

I recalled it all again today, stretched out with the right beer at the right place. I only shook the topic by promising myself that if she pulled up again today looking sad, I would simply jump onto her hood and we'd figure it out from there. I stayed as long as I could, but no luck.

It's no surprise the thought of her comes back to me. For a while, when either one of us would wobble, we had the knack of getting our four feet together and turning each other around until we balanced again. I don't think either of us understood the science of it - like the table trick, it seems unlikely when you think it through. It was enough for us, though, that it worked, and kept our feet on the ground.

I've no idea what she's up to now, but I like to think the floor's standing solid underneath her. With any kind of passable support at all, I know that she's still smiling.