The man in front of me speaks the dreaded words in a nasally tone, but I just continue to look at him, bored and unimpressed. My knuckles tap on the counter of the small, indie bookshop, and I finally glance up at the curtained-off window that gives the shop a dark, moody feel. Either due to the ambiance or just the fact that digital books exist, we’re never exactly packed. Today has been a particularly slow day, which I will never complain about, though this man really seems set on ruining the end of my shift.
When the door opens, I glance up and give my routine, practiced smile to the mailman. Like clockwork, my boss scurries out of the back room, her eyes on the delivery boy who’s at least ten years younger than her. Not that either of them seems to mind the age gap.
She adjusts her hair slightly on the way by, barely giving me a glance. Though she does stop just for a moment to give the customer in front of me a bemused, dismissive look before going back to her mission of wooing her lover.
“No,” I sigh, finally turning my attention back to the man who definitely isn’t going to buy anything. But I’m pretty sure he hadn’t been planning on doing so anyway. After working here for this long, I’ve developed a sense of when someone is just window shopping or killing time, rather thanactuallylooking to buy something.
This man just seems like he has nothing better to do than be here and be an annoyance.
“What?” he enunciates the word stupidly, shifting his bulk forward like he’s trying to be intimidating. It definitely isn’t working on me, though, and I don’t move. At least, not in a way he wants. Instead, I shift forward a little to lean more of my weight on my hands, which are splayed on the counter.
“No.” I do the same as him, enunciating my reply too much as I meet his irritated, eager look with a bored one of my own. I’ve seen people who are just looking to start shit, and he’s definitely one of them. Tilting my head slightly, I add, “It's a complete sentence.”
His face goes red, then fades, and he rolls his eyes in exasperation like I’m the one fucking uphisday, instead of the other way around. I give him a minute to process my lack of a real response, studying his face with too much amusement, even though I don’t let any of it show on my face.
“We could order that edition ofSlaughterhouse-Fivefor you,” I say when he doesn’t give me a response. “As I said before. Though we can’t get it at the price you’re wanting it for. You’ll probably have to get a used one off of, I don’t know, Facebook or eBay. We don’t really do that.” My boredom seeps into the counter under me, and I glance over to see my boss toying with her hair, trying to look demure in front of the mailman.
At least until the customer blocks me by stepping in front of me and puffing out his chest. “I want to talk to your manager,” he demands. This time his voice is loud enough that my bosslooks over, though she barely gives him a moment of her attention before going back to her current project.
“I heard you. I don’t have a manager.”
“Your boss, then.”
“Nope.”
“The owner.”
“She really has no interest in talking to you.” I hold his eyes with mine, taking a sick kind of joy in watching how he squirms when I don’t look away. God, he’s so pathetic. Truly a mouse trying to pretend to be something he isn’t.
Sad.
An itch builds in my fingers, and I can’t help but wonder how his neck would feel between my hands. Would he beg? Or would he demand and fight and try to seem brave until the end?
I’m pretty sure I could make him beg for his life.He doesn’t strike me as someone who could keep a hold of himself for very long. Especially after the first time I hit him just to knock him off his game.
God, I would really love to hit this man to wipe the attitude off his face.
The door opens again and the mailman leaves, smiling at my boss as he goes. I watch, wondering when they’ve set their next clandestine meeting up for, and I’m surprised when my boss slides behind the counter next to me with a wide smile on her flushed face.
“I’m the owner. Alicia Behr.” She doesn’t offer to shake his hand, but her smile never wavers. She’s a master of faux niceness, and it’s something I don’t intend to learn from her. I fight not to roll my eyes as the man looks her over, clearly not having expected his wish to be granted.
“What can I help you with?” Alicia goes on, and the man fumbles for his complaint, trying to articulate his irritation in the face of her friendliness.
Naturally, she deals with him quicker than I could’ve, though when the door closes behind him, her smile falls and she rolls her eyes. “What an idiot,” she mutters. “Fucking pathetic. Sorry, I wasn’t undermining you, Tova. Just thought since I was out here, I could get rid of him for you.”
“No, I appreciate it,” I promise her. Though I wouldn’t have minded playing with him a little longer, just to see how uncomfortable I could make the man. “Are you staying to close? Or do you want me to?”
Alicia hesitates, thinking. “Would you?” she asks, confirming my suspicion that she and the mailman—whose name I’ll never remember—are meeting up somewhere that her husband won’t catch them. “If you can’t, though, it’s fine.”
But I’m already shaking my head before she finishes. “It’s fine, I don’t mind,” I promise her. “I’ve got nothing going on.”
“Well, I appreciate you. And you know I don’t think I could manage without you.” She flashes me her winning customer service smile that makes me want to roll my eyes, and I give her something similar but much less impressive back.
Alicia, eyes already on the curtain to the back room, pauses and turns back to me. “Oh! I almost forgot.” From the stack of mail, she slides out a little manila envelope and hands it to me. “This has your name on it.”
“Mine?” Confusion flutters through me as I look down, but sure enough, my name is printed in black Sharpie on the thick yellow paper. “Huh. That’s weird.” I have no idea what it could be, or why someone might send me mail here. There’s no reason for it, and the little package doesn’t feel like a bill or a notice. “Thanks,” I call as she leaves, and I press on the envelope, finding it contains something small and thin that rattles around when I shake it.
When the door opens again, I look up and shove the envelope into my pocket. There’s nothing I’m expecting, so I figure I’lldeal with it later. Especially since the old woman marching up to the counter with her pudgy fingers clenched around her phone is one of my least favorite customers in the Pacific Northwest.
