Though we’ve exchanged pleasantries—a common discourse when two strangers are mucked up in a misunderstanding—our hands are still on the cupcake. His large one on top of mine. I feel his fingers flex, making my middle finger dig into the delicate spongy cake.
“Your fingers are leaving indentations in my cupcake,” he informs me, as if I don’t already know something so airy and light needs to be handled with care.
“Well, if you weren’t squeezing my hand, I wouldn’t be squishingmycupcake,” I refute, emphasizing whose hand is literally on the damn cupcake.
“I saw it first.”
“Yeah, well I touched it first.” My eyes narrow at the same time his lips twist into what I can only deduce is a smile. We play an unauthorized round of the staring contest when he falters.
His tongue presses against the inside of his cheek. “So, finders, keepers?”
I nod.
“Care to negotiate a…barter?” he suggests.
My right eyebrow curves upward. “A barter?”
With his hand still crooked over mine in a more possessive and less protective manner, he reaches into his back pocket. “The cupcake for a bag of peanut M&M’s.”
“Do you always keep a bag of candy in your back pocket?”
“I saw some in line at the checkout.”
“Maybe you should’ve gotten some cupcakes while you were there.”
“I was getting the ice.” He tilts his head toward the coolers in the kitchen, and I start to wonder who this cupcake burglar is. Especially if Tommy entrusted him with the ice delivery.
I look at the crinkled bag held between us, already opened with one end folded and rolled toward the center. “You already ate some of them.”
“And?” he asks.
“And it doesn’t feel like a fair trade,” I answer. “A spongy red velvet cupcake with cream cheese frosting for a half-eaten bag of M&M’s?”
He shoves the M&M’s back into his pocket, his ploy a dud. “Okay then. How about we split it?”
“Like share?”
He smirks as if he finds our current predicament amusing. “Yes, I believe they taught us that in kindergarten. On the first day, in fact.”
My free hand furls into a fist and rests on my hip. “I think I know a little bit about kindergarteners.”
“Ah, so you’re one of them.”
A frown undoes the curiosity that laps over what sounds like an accusation. “One of them?”
“Teachers?” He says the word as if it should have a set of air quotes around it.
“Is there something wrong with being a teacher?”
He shrugs, like the question might be up for debate. “No.”
“But…”
“Just seems like a lot of menial work for such little reward.” He pauses, finally letting go of the cupcake. “Sylvia seems to bring a lot of that shit home, and?—”
“Wait. Who are you?” I cut in.
“James,” he answers. His shoulders square, and he stands a little taller. The name sounds familiar, but I can’t quite place it. “Tommy’s roommate,” he adds.
