Tonight, I accused him of staring. “It’s your coffee,” he replies, wistfully. “You make it so strong I can’t blink or focus my eyes. Your fault.”
“I make it the way I was trained to make it,” I answer, primly. “If you aren’t manly enough for it, I could make you some warm milk.”
He looks wounded and takes a big chug of his coffee, swallowing slowly and pointedly.
“Well, anyway,” I continue, wiping an imaginary spot of the counter with my dishtowel. “It’s rude to stare and you’re always staring at me. You should stare at Penny; she’s just started her new poem on stage.”
“I’d rather drink warm milk,” he shudders. “Will it be about goats and chocolate again?”
“I think it was supposed to be a metaphor.”
“I don’t need to know what for. Anyway, I didn’t mean to stare at you. I’m lost in thought.”
“Constantly? You’re constantly lost in thought? That’s a lot of thinking. You should give it a rest. Maybe switch to decaf.” I offer some from the pot behind me. I know my conversation is inane, but I am no good at conversation with handsome men.
“Pointless. Boring. Sleep inducing. Like warm milk. Or Penny’s poetry.”
I smile in spite of myself. Penny is sweet but it’s a pleasant change to be ranked higher somehow. I have no delusions about myself; I am tall and lanky with dark, nondescript hair that neither curls nor straightens properly. My light ice blue eyes might be fascinating, but are probably just creepy. I’ve been told by 21st century girls that I have a horrific sense of fashion (evidently t-shirts with kitty cats is not haute couture). And I have the inability to come up with witty responses to conversations from the opposite sex. I’m “a keeper,” I overheard someone say dryly once.
“Actually, I’m only scoping you out because of your grandma,” he continues, sipping.
“Prue?” I blink, not sure whether to be disappointed or wary with the change of subject.
“Elderly woman with an accent? Dispenses cryptic advice with her food?” He asks.
“Well, yes, that’s Prue. Where did you meet her? And why are you scoping out my grandma anyway?” I wonder if he knows my father as well. Prue and Dad sell Cajun/Irish/Southern/Italian food from a cart several blocks away. Prue is an excellent cook but between her fiery take-no-prisoners personality combined with a heavy accent and a tendency to swear at customers; she and Dad don’t pull in much income. Dad himself is a bit useless, truth be told, and most always drunk. He doesn’t exactly pull in the customers either. Although Prue’s cooking is amazing, they won’t be featured in any upcoming restaurant reviews, at least not favorable ones.
“She made me this really spicy gumbo and pasta thing. It may or may not have been alligator.”
“So?” I snap. “Don’t go back if you didn’t like it. And it’s not illegal to cook with if that’s what you’re getting at.” Worse than that, is a worry my Dad may have picked his pocket.
“What are you talking about? I loved it. I love her. I asked her to marry me and she hit me with her rice spoon. If it’s illegal to cook with alligator, I’ll cheerfully hide Gramma in my house from the authorities. I was actually hoping to get her to talk to me; I’m a photographer and I’d love a picture of her.”
“Oh. Well, you can ask, but she’ll probably turn you down.” Prue doesn’t like photos. Most of the Lost don’t. We’re timeless enough.
“I did, but she started waving her spoon at me again and I got scared. I guess I was hoping you’d butter her up for me? I’m a decent photographer, I promise. You can see my work if you like. These are all recent and from the area.” He pulls out a folder with several sheets of photos.
In spite of myself and the fact that I should be refilling coffee right now, I leaf through them politely. They are quite good, at least to my untrained eye. I see a young boy that I recognize from the street where I live. The photographer has captured his mischievous grin and his missing front teeth perfectly. He poses in a cocky way for the camera. There are a couple of teenagers holding up a large fish, grinning and looking deliciously sunburned and young. A woman nuzzling a tiny baby – I think I’ve seen her as well, only she was pregnant the last time