“Boss?” Peter waves a hand in front of Alexander’s face. “Oh, shit. Hey, Rina? What are the signs of a stroke again?”
Alexander swats Peter’s hand away. “I’m not having a stroke. Just thinking.”
“Good, because my CPR’s rusty.”
“I’d rather you let me die than perform CPR on me.”
Peter chuckles. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“You guys go on ahead. I’ve got to talk to Eden.”
“Is she in trouble or something? If it’s about the broken pilot light—”
“Broken pilot light?”
“Yeah. I told you about it three times already. It’s the reason my steaks haven’t been cooking properly. I’ve been working on a half-broken element.”
Alexander, for the life of him, doesn’t remember any of these conversations. He folds his arms over his chest. A broken pilot light isn’t the end of the world, but it’s certainly an inconvenience. He’s going to have to call the repairman to have the appropriate parts replaced, but there’s no telling if they’ll get here in time for the weekend rush.
The heavy clatter of a toolbox on a nearby counter catches him by surprise. He turns to find Eden by the stove in question, searching for the necessary tools she needs to fix it.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he asks her.
“Building a spaceship,” she answers sarcastically. Eden smiles at Peter. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it. You guys have a good night.”
Peter nods. “See you tomorrow. You two be good.”
Alexander frowns. “What’s that supposed to mean—”
“Goodnight!” Eden says cheerfully, moving to close the door on everyone. She turns and leans against the locked doors, holding back a laugh. “Are you feeling alright? I’ve never seen you so spacey before.”
He shrugs, unable to stop himself from smiling. “What can I say? It was a good day.”
“I’m glad.” Eden moves to the stove and starts taking the element off, along with the silver metal drip pan beneath it.
“You should really leave it for the repairman,” Alexander starts.
“Relax. I used to fix these all the time.”
“You did?”
She nods, tongue sticking out from the corner of her mouth in concentration. “The equipment we had at the place I worked before was at least thirty years out of date. I can fix this one up no prob—Ah, see? The pilot adjustment screw’s just a bit loose. Can you hand me a slot screwdriver?”
Alexander shifts through the toolbox —it’s a dusty old thing, hidden away somewhere in the darkest corner of the pantry downstairs— but eventually finds what he’s looking for. At least, he thinks so. Judging by the dissatisfied expression Eden wears, probably not.
“No, I said a slot screwdriver.”
“What the fuck is that?”
“It’s the flat one. Kind of looks like a spatula.”
“You should have just said that in the first place. That’s language I understand.”
Eden giggles. “Of course, how silly of me.”
Alexander holds up another tool. “This one?”
“No. That one’s too thick. I need the three-sixteenth inch.”
