And unfortunately wasn’t.
“I’m not sure about the weed eater,” Evelyn says. “That might do damage to more than just the ’stache.”
“Depends on the skill of the handler.”
I’m actively working on calming my rising pulse and enjoying my friends’ conversation instead as a young white woman who’s finished giving blood approaches our table. I quickly shift my attention to her.
“Hi! Thank you for your donation today. Rock star! How’re you feeling? Apple juice and Goldfish?”
She takes both from me, but looks over her shoulder at the four chairs currently occupied by very large men who came in while she was in her own chair. “Whoarethose guys?”
She’s a little younger than me with bright blue hair, a nose ring, and clothes that saywork-from-home professional of some kind.
“Copper Valley Pounders players,” I reply.
“Is that college hockey or something?”
“Professional rugby. Relatively new here in the States. The Pounders are one of the original teams in the league though.Tickets are on sale now for their next season. You should check it out. It’s similar to football, but with different rules and no pads.” The words taste a little like trash, but I do have good reason to support the team.
Even if I don’t have happy thoughts about their newest player, who should still be overseas andnot here.
“Huh.” She takes her snacks and moves the seven steps necessary to reach thesit here and eat your snack while we make sure you don’t pass outtables under the fluorescent lighting of the cafeteria-like room.
“You meet him yet?” Odette asks me.
“Who?”
“Bad Mustache guy.”
Once.
A long, long time ago, when his facial hair wasn’t as thick.
Not that that’s what I remember most about him.
And I’m sure he doesn’t remember much about me either. Or if he does, the memory is stuck somewhere in that awful ’stache.
Which is about where it belongs, considering what he said that day.
“Nope,” I tell Odette while I pretend I’m adjusting my bra but am actually rubbing at my chest to try, once again, to calm my heart. The man did serious damage. “Haven’t spoken to him at all.”
“If you block out the mustache, he’s not bad-looking,” Evelyn says. “Here. Hold up a finger like this and squint, and you can see his face without the mustache in the way.”
“Quit staring,” Odette tells her. “He’ll think you’re interested.”
“Or he’ll think I have a cute granddaughter. Ididpass these sexy genes down a couple generations. Oooh, he’s looking our way.” She winks and wiggles her fingers at him.
He slides his arrogant gaze back to his cameraperson.
And I suppress a shiver.
I’ve healed from a lot of things in the past six years.
What he said is not one of them.
“What if he’s a loud chewer?” Odette says. “Or what if he tosses his underwear next to the laundry basket? Whenwedate, it’s one thing. We’re too old to be in it for anything other than a good time. When we help our granddaughters date, we need to have higher standards for them. They don’t have to get married, but if they want to, we don’t want them with loud chewers who don’t pull their weight around the house.”
“Hey, cafeteria lady,” one of the players yells directly at me, “I feel weak. Bring me some Goldfish. The graham cracker kind. In the blue and pink bag.”
