Page 26 of Compassion

“Uh…” she innocently begins to contemplate an answer given the nature her face is scrunching.

“Is it because it’s the most cost efficient?”

“Oh, definitely not.”

“Is it because it’s the one most often on sale?”

“Almost never.”

“Then why?”

“Um…,” a small, absentminded shrug presents itself, “Chris liked organic food, and this one fits the bill.”

“I see.” I do my best to grin rather than grimace and swallow the judgments jumping around on my tongue. “Thank you for dinner, Jaye.” She begins to smile again pushing me to encourage it to resume to the full-fledged one it was before I started asking too many questions. “And thank you for the clothes. And the toothbrush. And the hot shower. And the warm place to sleep tonight. And um…rescuing mefrom the cops.” Gratitude nudges me to add another line. “Your actual friends are lucky to have you watching their six, and I hope they fucking know that.”

“I don’t…uh…I don’thavefriends.”

The retort escapes without my consent. “Is that what you want me to be?”

Mixed responses appear in her expression yet not a single one leaves her lips.

Of course not. This is all some charity case bullshit. I should’ve just let them haul my ass off to a cell again. It would’ve given me a warm place to sleep with a clear fucking conscience.

Instead of pressuring her for answers, I merely nod, lift my fork, and dig into the steaming pile of pasta waiting to be devoured. The first bite is by far the most incredible thing I’ve tasted in probably the last four years. And the second is just as incredible as the first spurring me to shovel the shit into my face by the largest forkfuls possible.

Logic doesn’t hesitate to remind me pacing is everything but the fear of not knowing the next time I’ll have a warm meal annihilates it.

Has me shoving hunks of bread back.

Popping cherry tomatoes from the side salad one right after another – practically not chewing, just swallowing.

Hell, it isn’t until I look up to grab my bottle of water that I realize what an uncivilized savage I must appear to be.

I prepare to apologize for my grotesque behavior, to offer to eat in the garage out of sight, to even just wait until she’s finished to keep going when she snickers. “Gah, it’s like the scene fromBeauty & The Beastwhere he has porridge all over his face.”

Her laughter prompts my own, and I reach for my nearby napkin. “Is it really that bad?”

“The question is…is it really thatfunny?”

“Gonna guess the answer is yes.”

“You are correct.”

More chuckles fill the room during the wiping of my face.

I’ve barely finished when she sweetly speaks again, “Can I ask you something?”

“Go for it.”

“Why me?” She carefully swirls the wine around her glass, eyes never breaking contact. “Why my house? Why my trashcan?”

Resentment rushes through me causing a sneer to cross my face. “Don’t feel flattered, sweetheart.”

“Yeah, I don’t like sweetheart inthattone.”

Her pushback stuns me momentarily silent.

“And I wasn’t meaning to imply that I thought I was special because I know I’m not. I never am. I-”

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