to scrunch up that T-shirt into a bowl and eat it with a dessert spoon.
“I never thought you’d wear . . .” I gesture vaguely at his fabulous torso.
“You thought I’d be paintballing in Hugo Boss?”
“Hugo Boss, eh? Didn’t they design the Nazi uniforms?”
“Lucinda, I swear.” He closes his eyes for nearly a full minute. He pinches the bridge of his nose. I’d swear he’s trying to not laugh, or scream.
I cross my eyes at him, poke my tongue out, and say, “Derrrr.” He doesn’t crack. Defeated, I twist up and look over the seats until I see Danny’s ruffled hair. We wave to each other and pull identical faces to indicate how unhappy we are with our seatmates. Then it occurs to me my boobs are probably a couple of inches from Joshua’s head and I slide back down.
“You and him? It’s getting a little pathetic.” Joshua is testy.
The word cuts me deep. Pathetic. He’s called me that before. We’ve circuited back neatly to the same place we’re most comfortable. I had wondered how things would play out after the kiss, after the tears, the wounded sadness in his eyes. The apology. The silence that has stretched through each day since.
According to Joshua, we’re back to hate, and I can’t do it much longer. I can’t keep it going. It’s taking too much out of me. What was once as easy as breathing is now an uphill battle. I’m so tired I’m aching.
“Sure. I’m pathetic.” I watch the road ahead, and the Staring Game is going on, one-sided. I ignore him.
No one can see us except the driver, if she chose to look, but she’s got traffic to contend with.
“Shortcake.”
I ignore him.
“Shortcake.”
“I do not know anyone by that name.”
“Play with me for a minute,” he says it softly, right in my ear. I turn my face to his and try to regulate my breathing.
“HR,” I manage. His face is so close to mine I can taste his breath, hot mint sweetness. I can see the tiny stripes in his irises, tiny unexpected sparks of yellow and green. There are so many blues I think of galaxies. Little stars.
“Are your roses still alive?”
Is there anything this man does not know? I try to not notice that our elbows are touching a little.
Elbows are not erogenous. At least, I didn’t think they were.
“Who’d you hear about them from?”
“Well, everyone knows Danny Fletcher is your dream man. Roses and whatnot. Candlelit lunches for
two in the work kitchen.” He looks at my lips, and I lick them. He looks at my bra strap, and my knees press together.
“Who’s your source?”
His eyes are getting darker. The pupil is eating the blue, and I think of his elevator eyes. Murderous eyes. Passionate eyes. Crazy-person eyes.
“Inside source? Like magazines have for celebrities? Are you a celebrity, Lucinda?”
“I don’t know how you know so much.”
“I’m perceptive. I know everything.”
“You know I have roses in my bedroom because of what, body language? Mind reading? You’re so full
of shit. You probably look through my window with a long-range telescope.”
“Maybe I have the apartment opposite yours.”
“You wish you did, you creep.” I’m beginning to feel the first prickles of sweat on my spine. If he did, I’d probably be the one sitting in the dark with binoculars.
“Well? Are they?”
“They wilted. I had to toss them out this morning.”
His hand slides down my arm, slowly, softly, pressing the goose bumps flat. His hand is so cold I glance up at his face. His face is set to a default frown.
“You’re pretty hot.”
“Yeah, but that’s common knowledge.” I’m sarcastic as I pull away. The bus jolts around a corner and a little wave of dizziness blurs my vision and nausea turns my stomach over. I’m not getting sick. My body is probably reacting to the stress of the job application process, the kiss, and the murder-glint in Joshua’s eyes.
“Looking forward to being annihilated?”
I manage the best retort I can.
“I’m going to destroy you. The Hating Game. You versus me. It’s the only way this can possibly end.”
“Right,” Joshua barks abruptly, standing up and kneeling in his seat to address our colleagues. They all reluctantly