I endure the touch because it is brief and not unkind.
“Ask after closing,” she says. “No audience. No grand speeches. No references to debt, duty, protection, compensation, military alliances, or capacity demonstrations.”
“I would not?—”
Her look silences me.
“Fine,” I say.
The day becomes the longest of my life.
Longer than marches through ash fields. Longer than holding lines under orbital fire. Longer than waiting for extraction ships that came too late. Time inside the bakery slows to a cruel crawl. I repair a shelf. I carry three supply crates. I intimidate one man into apologizing for snapping at Evie about cold coffee. I refill napkin holders with the concentration of a bomb technician. Through all of it, Evie moves around me, warm, quick, bright, alive.
Once, she brushes past me in the kitchen because the aisle is narrow, her shoulder grazing my arm.
My entire body reacts as if the contact is a tactical event.
She pauses and looks up. “You okay?”
“Yes.”
“You look like someone just insulted your ancestors.”
“No.”
“Your face says otherwise.”
“My face says many things inaccurately.”
She smiles. “That might be the best thing you’ve ever said.”
I turn toward the storage room before I say something worse.
By closing, I have formed and discarded thirty-seven possible invitations.
Evie, would you dine with me beyond the context of labor?
No.
Evie, I wish to engage in human courtship activities if you find my presence acceptable.
Terrible.
Evie, Al believes?—
Absolutely not.
Evie, I would like to spend time with you somewhere that does not contain Darlene.
Possibly accurate, but fatal if overheard.
The last customers leave at nine. Darlene stays long enough to clean the register, stare at me meaningfully, and announce, “I’m going upstairs to count ceiling cracks because apparently that’s more dignified than watching a large man wrestle his own tongue.”
Evie blinks. “What?”
“Nothing,” I say.
Darlene snorts and goes through the back stairwell.
