Page 3 of Give & Take

Her shoulders are stiff, jaw tight as she taps into her phone with tensed, fast-moving thumbs.

I want to ask if she’s okay. What the fuck did Mike do?

But when she looks up at me and I smile—a polite, non-charming smile this time—she just narrows her eyes and looks back down.

It’s okay, I deserve that. I can bask in the glow of that fire. Toast a marshmallow.

I stand a good few feet away from her, giving her space.

She tosses her phone into her bag.

And looks right at me.

I’m not staring, I’m not standing too close. But she won’t stop staring at me. Finally she says,

“What is your problem, buddy?”

Her pulse flashes in her throat.

When I meet her eyes, her expression flashes too. There’s something there that surprises me. A kind of vulnerability, I think, before the daggers drop back into place.

I suddenly realize what an ass I’ve been. She’s beautiful, of course, but that’s almost an afterthought now. I’mcurious about her. I can tell she’s fierce and doesn’t take shit. But she’s got a story. And she’s going through something.

“I’m sorry,” I say. I mean it.

She blinks. “Sorry?”

“For objectifying you.”

She looks surprised at that. She purses her lips, not saying anything.

“You can objectify me back, if you want,” I say. “I don’t mind.”

Her eyes narrow.

I turn around slowly, arms up in the air.

She bunches her eyebrows together like she thinks I’m insane.

I stop. Most of the time making someone laugh is the best way to diffuse a tense situation. Maybe not here. “I won’t say anything else,” I promise. “I’ll just wait for my fries.”

“Could you wait farther away from me?”

I’m already several feet away from her. But I nod. “Sure thing.”

I move a few feet away, right next to the garbage can. It’s stuffed to the brim. I stand right up next to it, like it’s my best friend. It reeks. Baking dog shit, probably. I make a gagging sound. Then another, covering my mouth with my hand. I don’t even need to fake it.

Again, she looks at me like I’ve lost my mind, which I guess I have.

But if I’m not mistaken, there’s the tiniest twitch to her lips. Almost imperceptible if I wasn’t terrific at reading faces.Which I am.

Then her lips are a hard line again.

But for that brief millisecond, she was fighting a smile.

Suddenly, I consider everything that might actually make her smile. Shouting the menu in spoken verse? Reciting Tolstoy to the tune of Mamma Mia? I know a lot of Tolstoy, thanks to my PhD. And all of Mamma Mia thanks to my sister.

I’m about to ask her if she likes ABBA when the cashier hollers, “Order 102!”

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