Lawyers charge an arm and a leg by the hour. I probably should’ve continued studying law.
I pause by my vanity and decide to replace my earrings. On my way out of the bedroom, I thread my (fake) bunny rabbit tail earrings through the first holes in each of my ears. I have three holes in my left ear and five in my right, but I seldom fill them anymore. Sometime in my late twenties, I got tired of wearing lots of jewelry in my ears.
I’m into bracelets, whenever I remember to stack them on my wrist.
I pile my blue-and-burnt-orange stacks on my wrists now. Wait, where was I going? Oh yeah, to check the fridge and make sure I have enough to make dinner for two.
In the kitchen, I discover I have barely enough meat for myself. At least I have salami and cheese for two sandwiches for lunch. I’m pretty hungry.
I close the fridge door and yelp.
“Gosh, you’re quiet,” I tell my houseguest, who just appeared there as if by magic.
“I wasn’t trying to be.”
“Well, you are.”
“If you say so.” The man sits on the bar chair and picks up the remote control, then turns up the volume on the news.
I grab a jar of pickles. “Already thirty-seven people have been reported injured. Over a hundred arrested. They won’t say how many dead.” I eat a pickle. “You think Massio Crossbow is one of them?”
The man shrugs. “I don’t know.” He navigates to the settings on the screen, turns on captions, then mutes the TV. He spins on the bar chair and faces me, his gaze dropping to my sandwich. He might be hungry.
“I can make you one of these,” I offer.
“Thanks. I’ll pay for it.”
“That’s a weird thing to say.” After putting the bread on a plate, I stack salami on top of cheese. “You like mustard?”
“No.”
“Mayo?”
“No.”
“Whatdoyou like?”
“Walking with my ankle intact. You?”
I chuckle. “My phone. I like my phone.”
A corner of his lips turns up. “I told you I can fix your phone.”
I hold out a plate with a sandwich and a pickle on the side. He’s watching the TV and not paying attention to me, and I pause for a moment to admire his profile.
He cleans up nicely. His jaw is hard and strong, and his nose is straight. His hair is too short to tell the color, but I’m pretty sure he’s a natural blond or at least a light-brown-headed man.
I avert my gaze, feeling awkward about checking him out. If my daughter were straight, she could date him. He’s a few years her senior.
“When is your shift?” he asks since I’m wearing scrubs.
“I’m on call whenever they need me.”
“I’ll pay you more to stay.”
I laugh. “You’re a funny guy.”
“I’m not trying to be.”
