Not all the way, though.
No, that would be too simple.
It hangs unevenly, flapping against the range hood because why wouldn’t it?
Chuckling, I withdraw my salt and pepper shakers, offering them to my new neighbor.“Here you go.Can I get you anything else?Would you like a cupboard door to go with it?It’s half-off today.”
His lips don’t even twitch.
Does he not realize how funny that was?Comedy gold.
His green-eyed gaze swings from the broken cabinet to my rooster- and hen-shaped salt shakers like they offend him too.
He really needs to find a new mode.This one is getting monotonous.
I give the shakers a good rattle.“Thanks for dropping by to say ‘hello.’You can go back to your house now.”
He takes the set, turning the pieces over in his large hands.“It’s not my house.My parents bought it.”
“Well, that’s good.”First happy bit of news to come out of his sarcastic mouth all day.
“Why is that good?”
“Because now I won’t have to sell my house to avoid living next to a butthead,” I say with a wide smile, like my dad always taught me.“Say it with a smile, Clo.Makes the bad news easier to take.”
He blinks a couple of times, his brows slowly climbing toward his disheveled hair.“Did you just call me a butthead?”
I lift a shoulder in a shrug.“I don’t know your name, and ‘Butthead’ seemed fitting, considering you’ve been nothing but rude since you came into my coffee shop.”
His eyes widen.“Yourcoffee shop?”
The emphasis he puts on “your” doesn’t go unnoticed.Here I thought maybe he’d take the opportunity to apologize and even mend his grumpy ways.But no.He’d rather insult me.“What’s wrong?Do women not own businesses where you’re from?”
“Nah, they do.I guess I just expect a boss to be more punctual.Sets a poor example for your employees.A lot of shit can go wrong when you’re not there.”
I’ll show him a poor example.I steal back my rooster and my hen from his fingers.He can eat whatever delicious meal he cooked without them.“Okay, that’s it,” I say.“I only share Henrietta and Ronaldo with friends.You should look for seasoning elsewhere.”
He doesn’t budge.
“Go on.Get out of here.”Salt sprays onto my floor when I wave Ronaldo-rooster at the door.I can take Inspector Butthead dissing my stairs and my overhang, but the way I decide to runmybusiness is none of his.
What is it about men that makes them feel entitled to give their opinions on everything without invitation?I’ve had enough of this guy.“And if you even think of setting foot inside Mugs ever again, I suggest you bring a better attitude.Otherwise, you might end up with hot coffee all over your lap.”I wouldn’t dare, but he doesn’t know that, does he?
I can imagine it now, right down to his shrill scream of indignation if I walked up to him and dumped a big old pot right over those nice jeans.
“I believe you meanlukewarmcoffee,” he says.
He didnotjust go there.
The corners of his lips twitch into an almost-smile.
Now he wants to badmouth mycoffee?Who died and made him Mayor of Jerkville?
“Let me guess.You’re one of those guys who likes his coffee boiling hot and burnt to a crisp.Do you even know what that does to the grounds?”Clearly not, because he’s looking at me like he just got slammed in the face with a wave.“If the water is too hot, it leads to excess extraction, making your coffee bitter as hell.I suppose that shouldn’t surprise me, though.You seem like the kind of guy who thrives on bitterness.”
He’s not almost-smiling now.No, my dear neighbor is back to scowling as he turns on his heel and stalks out onto the back deck without another word.A split second later, there’s a sharp snap and a loud curse.
I return Henrietta and Ronaldo to the cupboard with a smile.Really,reallyglad I never got those stairs fixed.
