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“Jesus. ”
“Why, you like her? You know if you’d told me, I wouldn’t—”
“Nah, it’s fine. She’s my lab partner. ”
“She’s got an ass on her,” he says.
“I don’t want to hear about it. ”
It’s not that I care about Penelope one way or the other. I just don’t want to go to lab and have to think about Krishna bending her over a railing or whatever.
He’d tell me all the details if I didn’t forbid him to. Krishna will tell anybody any goddamn thing. Back home, a guy who bragged as much as he does would get his ass beat on a regular basis. When I met him last year, I thought I’d probably kill him inside of a week, and there goes my big chance.
He has a way of making you like him, though. Fuck me if I could tell you what it is.
He smacks the dough lightly. “This doesn’t compare. It’s all lumpy. ”
“It’s the nine-grain. It’s supposed to be lumpy. ”
When he thinks I’m not looking, he pinches off some dough and puts it in his mouth. Then he licks his finger.
“That’s it. If you touch one more thing, you’re leaving. ”
“You’d get lonely without me here to keep you company. ”
“Yeah, I’ll cry all over the baguettes and tell Bob to charge the suckers extra for artisanal salt. ”
Bob owns the bakery. He hired me as extra labor for the Thanksgiving rush last November, but I made myself so indispensable that he kept me on, eventually giving me a few overnights a week. He’s close to retirement, and he doesn’t really give a fuck anymore as long as the place opens and closes and there’s something to sell. He’s been letting me experiment with the bread, make new kinds to see if the customers go for it. It’s a kick.
Plus, the bakery is a great place to move weed. There was already a tradition of Bob selling warm muffins and cookies to college students in the wee hours—stoners with the munchies, students pushing the edge of an all-nighter. I keep up the tradition, but the ones who text or call me first and slip a wad of cash into my hand get more than a muffin in their paper bakery bag.
Krishna’s running the finger he licked around the lip of the giant mixing bowl. I go for the towel again, but he sees it coming and grabs it out of my hand. I let him. I’m not fighting over a hand towel.
“I’ve got work to do, you know. ”
“What have you got to do? Watch dough rise. This is the most boring job in the world. ”
Since he got here, I’ve been washing dishes in water hot enough to scald his never-worked-a-day-in-his-life skin.
I don’t know why I keep him around. He skips class, doesn’t have a job, drinks too much, sticks his dick in anything that moves. I shouldn’t like him.
He just kind of attached himself to me.
I’d planned to live by myself this year. I found a basement apartment for cheap and got permission from the college to live off campus, which saves a fortune on room and board.
Krishna saw the lease on my desk and begged me to take him with me.
He ended up finding a bigger place, above a shop, and promised to pay the rent if I’d lease it and let him take a room. I agreed, because he’s good for it. Krishna’s parents are loaded.
He dusts off the countertop with the towel, hops up on it, and draws a grid in the flour on the cool metal surface. “Will it cheer you up if I tell you your girl’s sitting out front in her car again?”
I look up, which is just stupid. First off, I can’t see her from back here. I can only see her if I walk to the other side of the room and look out the front window—and then she can see me, which I don’t want her to.
Second, she’s not my girl.
Third—
“Ha!” Krishna says. “You’re so easy. ”
