He chuckles and shakes his head. "What? Your gran some kind of pole dancer who likes to tell dirty jokes?"
Ben thinks H and R are just letters in the alphabet.
He studies me, then scratches his side as he hitches up his work pants. "Actually..." He furtively looks around. "If you do have a filthy-mouthed stripper grandma, let me know where she works. Queens? Brooklyn? I'm not going to Staten Island, and Jersey City is out of the fucking question. But I like a mature lady who knows where it's at."
What the fuck? Is this guy for real now?
I slam a hand on the phone and stare, and I think my mouth drops open. I haven't been here long, but isn't this inappropriate?
All I can get out is, "What?"
"Shit. I mean—Fuck. I'm not trying to date your gran." His eyes go big. "Or you."
Sweat pops out on his forehead, and I'm almost positive it's because he basically wants to date someone's stripper gran.
"I..."
Ben guffaws. "A joke...a joke, kid. Your gran's safe from me. I'm kidding. I've got a girlfriend. This guy you're texting, he must be some kind of catch to make you blush like that."
Suddenly, the thrill of the moment is lost along with any desire to drink the brown rice tea.
Setting down the mug, I excuse myself, scurrying down the hall and turning right to the ladies' bathroom. I go into one of the stalls, lock the door, and sit down on the lid.
Then I let myself breathe.
I know Ben is harmless. He is just shit at small talk. That, and he is not used to talking to females. Apparently.
Also, I think maybe he has a fetish for grans, if that conversation is anything to go by. Or he just can't joke to save his life.
My hands shake as I hold them out, heart pounding hard.
Maybe it's me. Maybe I misread the situation and the joke was hilarious. Maybe I just can't read signals. After all, I didn't know my own dad was?—
Closing my eyes, I drop my head in my hands, heaving out a breath.
Sometimes, the world gets too much for me.
It never used to, at least not on this level. And a year ago, the before times, as I sometimes call them, I could hide in studies, in work, in the world I grew up in, pampered, protected, surrounded by people who loved and supported me.
At least, they did, until...
A sob hits me, but I swallow it down.
It's just been twelve months since my dad died.
The pain sometimes feels so switchblade sharp. Other times, it's worn into my flesh, etching into bone.
"Breathe, Lola. Breathe." I force a few slow inhalations and exhalations, counting the seconds, forcing them to be steady and deep.
And as it always does, equilibrium returns.
There is nothing like drowning in grief while everything you have is either frozen by the government or sold off to pay debts.
Talk about riches to rags, reverse fairy tale style.
I give a silent, watery laugh and grab some toilet paper to carefully press to my eyes.
Life took such a turn from what I thought it would be.
