now.” With her hand, she gestured for him to move. “Just… go away.”
“Believe me, lady, I'd love to oblige you,” he said, his
voice less friendly, “but in case you haven't noticed, it's pretty crowded in here.”
“You can find another seat.”
“Maybe you'd like to find another seat. I've been waiting two hours.”
Two hours? How did he get out so fast? That infuriated Robin—she had to wait all night, and this dude was out in two hours? “I was here first!” she insisted petulantly.
“Ah,” he said, nodding. “Clearly, I misunderstood.” But instead of moving, he just settled in.
Robin glared at him. “What do you think you are doing?”
“Like I said, the room is full, so unless you can produce a deed or something that proves you own this bench, I'm not going anywhere.”
“Oh my God!” Robin exclaimed indignantly and abruptly stood up.
“Nice talking to you, Miss Congeniality!” he said as she started to push her way down the row.
“Shut up!” she barked over her shoulder. Three or four seats down, she glared at two Hispanic men who, after exchanging a wary glance with one another, moved to make a seat for her.
She squished in between them like a sardine, then glanced down the row just as the jailbird got up and sauntered off. Bastard! But Lord… what a saunter that bastard had! Even in her dejected, repulsed, and generally miserable state, Robin could not help noticing how fine he was in his ancient denim jeans and briefly wondered what he might have done to land himself in hell, but quickly stopped when he turned abruptly and caught her staring at his backside. He flashed her a lopsided, knew-it smile. Robin frowned deeply, turned her attention forward, and did not look again. Except once. Maybe twice. By the time they finally called her name, she had definitely lost sight of him and was in such a hurry to get out of that stinking hellhole that she almost collided with him when she turned from the window, clutching her freedom on a receipt marked PAID.
He was standing in line just behind her; Robin gave a
little shriek of surprise and quickly jumped back a foot or more.
“Oh man… well, hello again, Sunshine,” he drawled.
“Je-sus!” she exclaimed heatedly, holding the hand with the receipt over her flailing heart as she glared up at him. “Can't you take a hint?”
“Hey, Your Majesty, I'm just waiting in line like everyone else.”
“Uh-huh, right,” Robin responded irritably and wondered for a split second why men thought women were so ignorant of their motives. “You know, if I were you, I'd be worrying about my new cellmate instead of trying to get a date!”
The man all but choked. He stared down at her, his copper-brown eyes wide with surprise. And then he laughed. Laughed. Laughed so roundly, as if that was so hilariously preposterous, that several heads turned in their direction. But he didn't seem to care—-he leaned forward, bent his head until his mouth was just an inch or two from her cheek, and said, “Sunshine, you're cute…” He paused, lingered there for a tiny moment, his breath warm on her face, so close that she could smell his cheap (but not altogether unpleasant) cologne. “… but no way are you that cute. And you're mean.” He straightened up. “You know, if I were you,” he said, mimicking her voice, “I'd see someone about that rod stuck up my butt.” With that, he calmly stepped around her to the payment window.
Okay. Well. She was now officially in hell. Some .. .jail guy… had just dissed her, and it was so unbearably humiliating that Robin beat a hasty retreat out the double glass doors, into the lobby of the processing center, clutching her purse and her receipts like a mad escapee, frantically searching the milling crowd for her grandparents.
Fortunately, her mother's parents were easy to spot. There was her grandfather, who had the distinct misfortune to have been named Elmer, and the even greater misfortune, in his
“Believe me, lady, I'd love to oblige you,” he said, his
voice less friendly, “but in case you haven't noticed, it's pretty crowded in here.”
“You can find another seat.”
“Maybe you'd like to find another seat. I've been waiting two hours.”
Two hours? How did he get out so fast? That infuriated Robin—she had to wait all night, and this dude was out in two hours? “I was here first!” she insisted petulantly.
“Ah,” he said, nodding. “Clearly, I misunderstood.” But instead of moving, he just settled in.
Robin glared at him. “What do you think you are doing?”
“Like I said, the room is full, so unless you can produce a deed or something that proves you own this bench, I'm not going anywhere.”
“Oh my God!” Robin exclaimed indignantly and abruptly stood up.
“Nice talking to you, Miss Congeniality!” he said as she started to push her way down the row.
“Shut up!” she barked over her shoulder. Three or four seats down, she glared at two Hispanic men who, after exchanging a wary glance with one another, moved to make a seat for her.
She squished in between them like a sardine, then glanced down the row just as the jailbird got up and sauntered off. Bastard! But Lord… what a saunter that bastard had! Even in her dejected, repulsed, and generally miserable state, Robin could not help noticing how fine he was in his ancient denim jeans and briefly wondered what he might have done to land himself in hell, but quickly stopped when he turned abruptly and caught her staring at his backside. He flashed her a lopsided, knew-it smile. Robin frowned deeply, turned her attention forward, and did not look again. Except once. Maybe twice. By the time they finally called her name, she had definitely lost sight of him and was in such a hurry to get out of that stinking hellhole that she almost collided with him when she turned from the window, clutching her freedom on a receipt marked PAID.
He was standing in line just behind her; Robin gave a
little shriek of surprise and quickly jumped back a foot or more.
“Oh man… well, hello again, Sunshine,” he drawled.
“Je-sus!” she exclaimed heatedly, holding the hand with the receipt over her flailing heart as she glared up at him. “Can't you take a hint?”
“Hey, Your Majesty, I'm just waiting in line like everyone else.”
“Uh-huh, right,” Robin responded irritably and wondered for a split second why men thought women were so ignorant of their motives. “You know, if I were you, I'd be worrying about my new cellmate instead of trying to get a date!”
The man all but choked. He stared down at her, his copper-brown eyes wide with surprise. And then he laughed. Laughed. Laughed so roundly, as if that was so hilariously preposterous, that several heads turned in their direction. But he didn't seem to care—-he leaned forward, bent his head until his mouth was just an inch or two from her cheek, and said, “Sunshine, you're cute…” He paused, lingered there for a tiny moment, his breath warm on her face, so close that she could smell his cheap (but not altogether unpleasant) cologne. “… but no way are you that cute. And you're mean.” He straightened up. “You know, if I were you,” he said, mimicking her voice, “I'd see someone about that rod stuck up my butt.” With that, he calmly stepped around her to the payment window.
Okay. Well. She was now officially in hell. Some .. .jail guy… had just dissed her, and it was so unbearably humiliating that Robin beat a hasty retreat out the double glass doors, into the lobby of the processing center, clutching her purse and her receipts like a mad escapee, frantically searching the milling crowd for her grandparents.
Fortunately, her mother's parents were easy to spot. There was her grandfather, who had the distinct misfortune to have been named Elmer, and the even greater misfortune, in his
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