Page 62 of Rigid

“Uh huh.”

“If that was all mixed up, he’d throw a fit.”

I looked at her in disbelief. I would have never guessed that about him. “Really?”

“True story,” she said. “And see this?” She pointed to two casserole dishes that were filled with stuffed pasta. “One’s Manicotti,” she said. “And the other is cannelloni. According to him, they can’t be in the same dish. He says they’re different pastas, so they can’t touch each other. And, he says they taste different. He likes them both.”

“Oh. Wow.”

She glanced over her shoulder and then looked at me. “He’s a weirdo. I’m sure he didn’t tell you that, though.”

I grinned. “He didn’t, no.”

“So, on the table, he likes the main course in the center, and the salad and bread on the outside.”

“Okay.”

Using oven mitts, she carried one of the casserole dishes to the table and set it on a stone trivet. “Just like that.”

“Hear the music?” she asked.

I hadn’t noticed it until she said something, but after she mentioned it, I noticed the faint sound of music came from the living room. What was playing sounded like an old-school ballad.

I nodded. “Yeah.”

“It plays all day. All night. Even when the T.V. is on. That’s another thing.” She smiled. “Like I said. He’s different.”

She placed the other casserole dish on the table, and then looked at me. “I really like that dress. I need to wear them more often. Where’d you get it?”

“The T.J. Maxx, out by Vista.”

She shrugged. “Never been there.”

“I like bargains. I shop there all the time. They’ve got good stuff, and it’s cheap.”

She looked me over again. “It’s really pretty.”

I nodded toward her feet. “I like your shoes, and I’m not just saying that. I really like them. I wear Chucks all the time.”

She nodded toward my 2” heels. “I’d wear ‘em with that dress.”

I glanced toward the living room, and then looked at her. “I should have,” I whispered.

“Want to see something cool?” She asked.

“Sure.”

She pointed toward the table. “Bread and the salad go on the outside, by his chair. I’ll be right back.”

I glanced at the table. All the chairs looked the same. “Which one’s his?”

“The one that points toward the door,” she said over her shoulder. “Be right back.”

She sprinted out of the kitchen. Nervously, I placed the salad and the basket of bread on the table, situating them an even distance from one another. Before I made myself comfortable with their placement, she came rushing to my side.

She handed me a small printed photo. “Look at that.”

I looked at the picture. A brick-red Volkswagen sitting beside a Harley-Davidson in someone’s driveway was all there was to see.