Page 104 of Cruel Demands

I spent three hours shaking hands, listening to men lie about generosity, and watching donors compete over who could appear most moved by suffering they have never experienced.

Taylor handled herself well. She smiled when required, translated when necessary, and stood up for herself. I wanted to see her one last time before the night ended and tell her that myself, but she seems to have disappeared before I could, which is quite unlike her. She’s usually eager to please, usually stays later than everyone else.

I find her in a hallway, staff winding up around her as the evening winds down, dishes clattering and voices shouting down halls. She’s sitting in a corner beside the vending machine, her heels unbuckled and half off of her feet, her formal coat folded in her lap. In one hand a pile of silver hair pins are closed in her palm, in the other a bag. Her eyes are distant, staring through a wall.

I stop short and consider turning around and leaving her to it, but she looks up. “Oh,” she says, dropping the pins into her lap and opening the bag loudly. “You’re still here.”

I watch as she fishes around in the packet. It crackles loudly, and she pulls out something curly and distinctly orange. “What is that?”

She glances down. “Food.”

“Are you sure?” I ask her, taking off my coat and letting it lay over my arm.

She smiles gently, popping it into her mouth and sucking on it. She takes it out of her mouth to reveal that it is now a brown color. “It’s a chip.”

“That is not a chip. That appears to be cardboard.”

She looks offended. “These are my favorite. They remind me of home. I nearly cried when I realized y’all have these too.”

“Nothing about that appears natural.”

“It isn’t,” she says with a grin. “Pure junk food. The American way. Not everything needs to be pickled or covered in dill.”

“Russian food is strong. Russian food is made to get you through winter.”

“You make it sound so appealing.”

“It is not supposed to be appealing. It is nourishment.”

“See, that’s the difference between Russians and Americans. We eat for enjoyment. Fritos are made⁠—”

“I am sorry—Fritos? Those abominations are called Fritos?” I sit down across from her, pulling my leg into a crisscross position the best that I can, though she is more flexible than I am.

“Yes.” Her eyes scan over me for a moment, and then she grins and leans forward. “I like the way you say it. Fritos.” She tries to say it in my accent.

“Careful.”

Her grin remains, and she holds one under my nose. “They’re made to get you through nothing at all. They’re for mindless eating.”

“Mindless eating does sound American, yes.”

“My mother used to keep these in the car,” she says. “When I was little. She’d buy the big boxes from the warehouse store because they were cheap, and she always had some in her purse or glove compartment. If we got stuck somewhere, she’d hand me a pack.” Her thumb rubs across the edge of the silver wrapper. “There. Now it’s emotionally significant. You can’t insult them anymore.” She holds the packet out. “Try one.”

“That is a dirty trick.”

“Yes. I watched you tonight. You’re familiar with those.”

I take the packet from her and look at the writing on the packet. Honey BBQ Flavor Twists. The label is in English, imported and overpriced, and from what I can tell the contents are worthless. No nutritional value whatsoever. I give it back to her. “No.”

“Why not? You can’t know you don’t like it if you haven’t tried it.”

“I do not need to try roofing material to know I will not like it. I read the nutritional content. I do not want it.”

“I dare you.”

“You dare me?”

“You’re scared you’ll like it,” she teases, popping one into her mouth and closing her eyes like it’s a piece of heaven.