The booth’s vinyl squeaks when I slide in. Bastian settles across from me.
“Coffee?” A waitress materializes beside us. She smells like a Virginia Slim factory.
“Just water for me,” I manage, breathing through my mouth.
“Coffee. Black,” Bastian says. “And ginger ale for her. With ice.”
I want to argue, but the thought of ginger ale actually sounds perfect, and I hate that he deduced that. He doesn’t know me. Not anymore.
“You look green,” Bastian observes when the waitress saunters away.
“Flattery will get you nowhere.”
“I’m serious. When’s the last time you ate something substantial?”
I can’t remember. Yesterday? The day before? Time has gone elastic since I came back from the funeral, stretching and compressing in ways that make no sense. “Define ‘substantial.’”
“Something that isn’t crackers or toast.”
“Then probably never.”
“Stay here.”
“Why? Where are you?—”
But he’s up and moving, no longer listening to me. “Doreen,” he calls, presumably the waitress’s name. “She’ll have dry wheat toast, two orders. Side of plain white rice. Chicken broth if you have it, saltines if you don’t. And apple slices. No cinnamon.”
My spine locks up because, c’mon,excuse the fuck out of me. “I can order for myself,” I say indignantly when he retakes his seat.
But my protest comes out a lot weaker than I would’ve liked because I’m genuinely about three minutes from painting this Formica table with stomach acid.
“The toast will help settle your stomach,” Bastian says.
“Then explain the rice, broth, and crackers.”
“Same answer.”
“And the apples?”
“Those are for me.”
I bite back a surprised laugh. I want to argue on principle, but my stomach roils again and I close my mouth.
Fine. He wins this round.
“Since when are you an expert on morning sickness?” I manage between careful, shallow breaths.
“Had three pregnant line cooks at the restaurants last year. I pay attention.”
“Mhmm. I’m sure you do.”
“I can’t tell if that’s a threat, an insult, or a compliment.”
“Dealer’s choice,” I say with a shrug.
We fall silent. I take the time to breathe. A trucker three booths over is explaining to his buddy why the Bears’ offensive line is “softer than baby shit,” while the nurses at the counter debate whether someone named Dr. Martinez is or is not sleeping with the new respiratory therapist.
It’s bizarre to listen to all these normal people having normal conversations about normal things. Their minds would reel if they could hear what Bastian and I are occupying ourselves with.
