I haven't had time to stop and watch people just to watch them in years.
When the line is gone, we step into place at the counter and Denali clears her throat, rattling off a salad order that sounds honestly delicious. It sounds better than what I'm planning to order, so I do something I'm not used to doing, and I tell them?—
"I'll have one of what she's having, thanks."
She stares at me, but says nothing, and when she steps up to pay, I watch her pull out the tablet and pay with the company card.
Is that something the company covers?I suppose if it's not, I'll cover it for her. It's her first day on the job. The companyshouldpay for her meal during the shift.
We take a little metal placard from the girl at the register, and then we're off, looking for anywhere with enough room to seat two of us.
"Quick, over there! There's an empty set of chairs at the barstools."
I don't even have a second to think before she grabs me by the hand and drags me to a far wall, where we cram into a row of people sitting against a bar that faces a window. Currently the window is open, and it has turned the bar area into outdoor seating.
It's quaint, like street vendors, with class. I'm not happy that I have to sit so close to a stranger, but I've done worse for less. She won't hear any complaint from my lips.
My fingers drum on the surface of the counter while I wait, pretending that being idle like this quite pointlessly, does exactly nothing for me but raise my blood pressure and my anxiety. I need to be moving, need to bedoing,and I'm not.
Denali's eyes flit over to focus on my hands and their nervous behavior, and she sighs. "You alright there, cowboy?"
"Cowboy?" I stare at her like she's an alien. "What?—"
"Figure of speech," she mutters, rolling her eyes. "Don't worry about it. Is there something wrong?"
I take a moment to think about that, because I'm not sure if I'm just being irritated for the sake of the argument, the sake of saying this was a bad idea, or if I'm truly perturbed. "I'm not used to sitting still like this," I say honestly, but she surprises me with her observational skills now.
"What's your normal activity during this time?" She waits patiently for an answer, and I know I have to give her one. It's just?—
"Meditation," I admit, which means that quite literally, all I usually do during this time is sit still, and practice deep breathing. "But it's different?—"
"It's not. You're sitting, are you not? When you meditate, and now." She takes a sip of the bottle of water she bought at the register, and I realize I didn't grab a drink while I was there. "You can practice deep breathing here, too. You just want a reason to complain."
She tips the bottle back, licks her lips, and I swallow thickly, wondering if meditation in a crowded restaurant is really possible. "I don't think?—"
"Actually, you think too much," she points out, standing up behind me. "Close your eyes."
"This is pointless?—"
Her hands cover my eyes, and though I grip her wrists, she doesn't move them. "Hold still and just listen to me. If you're really that put-out about missing your meditation session, then you'll take advantage of the one I'm giving you on the move." Her tongue clicks in her mouth, and the sigh that leaves her mouth is nothing short of frustration of the highest order. "Now, shutyour mouth, take a deep breath, hold it for ten while you count in your head."
This is so unorthodox, so ridiculous—but I listen, because I realize at this point I was just complaining to complain, and she's showing me, in her own rude way, how stupid I'm being. How whiny. How much of a man-baby she thinks I am. Which is unfair, really, because it's not my fault I have a routine, and I like it. I thrive on an organized schedule and routine.
This little interruption holds the potential to derail the whole day?—
"Breathe," she growls, smacking the back of my head lightly with her palm. "I'll count for you, if you're incapable."
"I'm an idol, not an invalid," I growl, taking a deep breath in through my nose. I count to ten, then let it out through my mouth while counting back down from ten?—
"Again," she commands, and I do it all over again. "One more."
She's getting on my nerves with her bossiness, but I do it one last time, and realize that the sounds of the busy, bustling crowd doesn't feel anywhere near as oppressive as it did before I participated in her moment of meditation and deep breathing.
She uncovers my eyes, and I wait until I can feel her take her seat next to me again before I open my eyes.
She leans in, propping her chin in her hand as she leans on her elbow on the bar. "Better?"
"It's no meditation session," I grumble, looking for anything to complain about to make myself justified in my unwarranted irritation at the detour and change of plans, "but it'll do."
