prodding usually commenced until either his Irish
temper made an appearance and he made an ass of himself, or he disengaged from
the conversation silently, seething. Either way Sasha usually won.
She’s coming this way , he thought to himself. He dabbed a paper napkin
across his brow and then wiped his palms on his khaki cargo shorts.
Then in that sing-song
voice, Sasha said, “What’s a matter Casanova ... you nervous?”
The room seemed to
contract and then expand, like it was alive, and the steady thrum of the
generators and the whooshing hood system in the kitchen was the sound of its
breathing. He gripped the table to steady himself, then shot her an icy glare.
Then his mom’s voice entered his head, recounting the advice she had given him
the day he went for that first Fast Burger interview. “Remember to be confident.
Be in control of the situation at all times. And Wilson,” she had said , “ be yourself .” The memory of her face and her soothing voice smothered
the looming anxiety attack. The events of that day seemed to have happened
years ago. In reality, only months had passed since interview day . And
only weeks had passed since Z day. How he would apply Mom’s advice here and
now, with the girl ten feet away and closing fast, he had no idea. But he did
have a strong suspicion he was about to find out.
“Here she comes,” Sasha
chided.
“Shhh!” he said as he
hunched his shoulders, trying to make himself smaller—to disappear altogether.
She stopped behind him.
“What’s the matter Red... got a flat?” Her husky voice made him jump, nearly
stopped his jack-rabbiting heart.
“Who, me?” he stammered.
“You were the one shushing ,”
she answered.
Silence.
“May I join?” she asked.
“’Cause everyone else in here’s a dinosaur.”
Sasha continued to chew
her food and motioned to the bench next to her with the spoon.
Wilson gaped at the new
arrival, who smelled like sunshine—or a dryer sheet, he couldn’t decide. At any
rate, his mom’s posthumous advice disappeared the moment the girl had spoken, leaving
him with a choice to make: run—or as Sasha had so eloquently put it—“ grow a
pair and wing it .” He chose the latter.
The breakfast rush was
now in full swing all around them.
“You shoulda been here
the other day. They had Pop-Tarts ,” Sasha said, breaking the ice. She
raised her eyebrows an inch and went on, “Freakin’ cherry Pop-Tarts...
thought I was in heaven.”
New Girl placed her tray
next to Sasha, and then took a seat on the bench directly across from Wilson,
who had a lock on her like a cat on a canary.
“Taryn,” she said,
extending her hand across the table.
After a few quick swipes
against the cool fabric of his khakis, he reciprocated with a clammy offering
of his own.
“My name’s Wilson,” he
stammered. He motioned to his sister with a flourish and an upturned palm.
Instantly he felt silly. “And she is...”
“My name is Sasha,” she
said, flashing the brunette a toothy grin. Then, after extending her pale freckled
hand, she added, “Wilson should have stopped talking for me when I was
like... three or four. But I’m not surprised ‘cause he’s been doing it my whole
life.” Sasha punctuated the statement by delivering her brother a look that
said, You owe me or I will ruin this for you .
While Sasha and Taryn
exchanged pleasantries, Wilson caught himself staring at the skulls and dragons
and various dangerous looking things inked up and down the young woman’s arms.
Full sleeves, he thought. His mind reeled, wondering where the artwork
stopped—or whether it continued on under the fabric of her form-fitting black
tank. He was smitten, and it showed.
Sasha pushed her tray
forward, leaned back in her chair and twirled a long scarlet lock with one
hand. Clearly she was enjoying seeing Mister I’m in charge now that Mom
isn’t here squirming under the Klieg lights of life.
Suddenly at a loss for
words, Wilson picked at
temper made an appearance and he made an ass of himself, or he disengaged from
the conversation silently, seething. Either way Sasha usually won.
She’s coming this way , he thought to himself. He dabbed a paper napkin
across his brow and then wiped his palms on his khaki cargo shorts.
Then in that sing-song
voice, Sasha said, “What’s a matter Casanova ... you nervous?”
The room seemed to
contract and then expand, like it was alive, and the steady thrum of the
generators and the whooshing hood system in the kitchen was the sound of its
breathing. He gripped the table to steady himself, then shot her an icy glare.
Then his mom’s voice entered his head, recounting the advice she had given him
the day he went for that first Fast Burger interview. “Remember to be confident.
Be in control of the situation at all times. And Wilson,” she had said , “ be yourself .” The memory of her face and her soothing voice smothered
the looming anxiety attack. The events of that day seemed to have happened
years ago. In reality, only months had passed since interview day . And
only weeks had passed since Z day. How he would apply Mom’s advice here and
now, with the girl ten feet away and closing fast, he had no idea. But he did
have a strong suspicion he was about to find out.
“Here she comes,” Sasha
chided.
“Shhh!” he said as he
hunched his shoulders, trying to make himself smaller—to disappear altogether.
She stopped behind him.
“What’s the matter Red... got a flat?” Her husky voice made him jump, nearly
stopped his jack-rabbiting heart.
“Who, me?” he stammered.
“You were the one shushing ,”
she answered.
Silence.
“May I join?” she asked.
“’Cause everyone else in here’s a dinosaur.”
Sasha continued to chew
her food and motioned to the bench next to her with the spoon.
Wilson gaped at the new
arrival, who smelled like sunshine—or a dryer sheet, he couldn’t decide. At any
rate, his mom’s posthumous advice disappeared the moment the girl had spoken, leaving
him with a choice to make: run—or as Sasha had so eloquently put it—“ grow a
pair and wing it .” He chose the latter.
The breakfast rush was
now in full swing all around them.
“You shoulda been here
the other day. They had Pop-Tarts ,” Sasha said, breaking the ice. She
raised her eyebrows an inch and went on, “Freakin’ cherry Pop-Tarts...
thought I was in heaven.”
New Girl placed her tray
next to Sasha, and then took a seat on the bench directly across from Wilson,
who had a lock on her like a cat on a canary.
“Taryn,” she said,
extending her hand across the table.
After a few quick swipes
against the cool fabric of his khakis, he reciprocated with a clammy offering
of his own.
“My name’s Wilson,” he
stammered. He motioned to his sister with a flourish and an upturned palm.
Instantly he felt silly. “And she is...”
“My name is Sasha,” she
said, flashing the brunette a toothy grin. Then, after extending her pale freckled
hand, she added, “Wilson should have stopped talking for me when I was
like... three or four. But I’m not surprised ‘cause he’s been doing it my whole
life.” Sasha punctuated the statement by delivering her brother a look that
said, You owe me or I will ruin this for you .
While Sasha and Taryn
exchanged pleasantries, Wilson caught himself staring at the skulls and dragons
and various dangerous looking things inked up and down the young woman’s arms.
Full sleeves, he thought. His mind reeled, wondering where the artwork
stopped—or whether it continued on under the fabric of her form-fitting black
tank. He was smitten, and it showed.
Sasha pushed her tray
forward, leaned back in her chair and twirled a long scarlet lock with one
hand. Clearly she was enjoying seeing Mister I’m in charge now that Mom
isn’t here squirming under the Klieg lights of life.
Suddenly at a loss for
words, Wilson picked at
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