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“But with us, it’s different. I’m forty-five, divided in half, that’s twenty-two plus seven is twenty-nine, and voila! I can be with you tonight!”
He could have told her she didn’t need to work so hard. Just sip her mojito and stare at him.
She reached for his book, her fingernails traced the cover in gentle circles.
“Nickel and Dimed: On (Not) Getting By in America. I read it many years ago. I think it was as part of a course in university.”
“It wasn't part of my studies, but it should have been.”
He re-read it now, for inspiration. His dream was to write a financial non-fiction book. He’d never found the time to do it and wouldn’t if he landed the new position at Tractus he was aiming at.
“What did you study? No! Don't tell me. We said no resumes.”
“Right,” he agreed, although he wanted to know more about her. “So, what do you like to read?”
“I... I don’t know. I used to like to read. But now, I haven’t picked up a book in so long...” She frowned.
A workaholic like himself, and he had made her upset about it.
“But look at you–here you are, picking up men!”
Her eyes flew to him and he hoped he didn’t upset her even further. But then she laughed.
“Yes! I am, aren’t I?”
He moved from behind the bar. Her breath caught when he came to stand in front of her, keeping out of her personal space. He itched to kiss her, but it was too soon. For all her bravado, she was tittering and insecure, and a little drunk. She needed to feel desired, but also safe.
“I need to finish with the closing,” he said gently.
“I can help,” Dafna offered again. “I’ll wipe, and you pick up the chairs.”
He handed her the table cleaner spray and a roll of paper towels. She leaned over the table, sprayed, and wiped energetically, her round ass moving. With her back to him, he could now adjust his jeans to a more comfortable position.
“What do you want to talk about?” he asked, flipping chairs onto the clean table. He’d leave the cleaning to his brother tomorrow. “Maybe what would you do if you had all the money in the world?” He winced at his own question. He foolishly threatened to quit this afternoon, and now he was scared shitless of losing his job.
“Would it change your life if you had more money?” Dafna asked.
“Yes,” he answered with no hesitation. If only for the ease of the ever-present burden of earning a good buck. He wasn’t hard for cash, he had just worked too hard for too many years. Ever since Gal was born. It didn’t get easier when his parents left for Australia, never to return. “Wouldn’t you?”
“No,” she answered as fast as he did. “I wouldn’t change a thing. I love what I do.”
She said it simply, and matter of factly, and he believed her. He wondered what she did that she liked so much, but he wasn’t allowed to ask her that.
“Okay, your turn, ask me anything,” he said.
“I’m rusty at this. I don’t want to fall into the cliches of: ‘name three people you would dine with’, or ‘your guilty pleasure TV series’. Oh, I know! I like your tattoo, tell me about it.”
“You’re great,” he grinned at her since she had stumbled on another cliché, “that’s the ultimate ice breaker, talking about tattoos. I got it because I like the sea and I wanted a sea creature on me. Okay, then, let’s see…what’s your biggest fear? Not counting the death of loved ones.”
Dafna's long lashes fluttered, and she looked sideways.
“What’s yours?” she countered.
“Not growing fat like my father. For sure,” he answered. Being considered a fraud and a cheat was number one, but he didn’t tell her that.
“Why do you read Nickel and Dimed?”
She wanted him to talk more than she wanted to talk about herself. He didn’t mind, as long as it made her comfortable.
