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“Sugartitties, come in here for a minute.”
“What’s up?” Abby asked, joining Randall in the kitchen.
“Where are all the potholders?”
“Maybe they’re still in the dryer?”
“I’ve got a pan of Danishes burning in the oven and no potholders. Go find me one.”
Abby went to the laundry room and retrieved them from the dryer. She brought them back to the kitchen, along with a pile of dishtowels. “Here you go.” She handed two potholders to Randall and put the rest in their kitchen drawer. Then she began folding dishtowels.
“Why does she wash them all at once?” Randall asked.
“I don’t know.”
He opened the oven and removed the pan of storebought Danishes he’d been reheating. “Put the pattern facing out,” he said.
“Sorry.” Abby unfolded the dishtowel she’d just done and tried again.
“Butter them up for me, would you?”
“Sure.” She removed a tub of butter from the refrigerator and put a chunk over each of the four rolls in the pan.
“Help yourself if you’d like one.”
“I’m good,” she said. “But thanks.”
“I don’t appreciate her leaving with a job half-done like that.”
“She doesn’t do that very often. She had to leave a little early yesterday to get her grandson.”
“When she gets here today, you need to talk to her about this. Tell her my Danishes almost burned.”
“I’ll talk to her.”
“Something like that affects a person’s whole day.”
“I know. I’ll talk to her.”
“Do it. Don’t make me call home and deal with it. I’m busy all day. You need to take some responsibility for how things go around here.”
“Got it.”
“Managing Rosa should be your responsibility. You’re the one who sees her on a daily basis. Not me.” Randall took a bite of one of the Danishes. He wasn’t dressed for work yet, so he made no effort to keep the butter from running down his chin and neck.
“Randall, I heard you. She does a pretty good job most of the time. But I heard you. I’ll talk to her.”
“I don’t like your attitude about this. The way you’re sticking up for her. It’s disrespectful to me. If you have to pick sides, you pick my side. Not hers.”
“Sorry. I’m on your side. Not hers.”
“Hand me one of those.”
Abby gave him a dishtowel. He wiped crumbs and butter from his face, and then tucked it in the neck of his t-shirt. “You need a certain level of detachment to be a good manager,” he continued. “If I suspect you’re getting too close with her, it’s going to make me think you’re letting her get away with things.”
He stuffed a second Danish in his mouth. They had cooled off a bit, allowing him to pick up his pace. He inhaled nearly half of it in one bite. His eating habits, like nothing else about him had ever done for her, occasionally mesmerized Abby. Like a seed bursting from the soil and becoming an unfurling, sun-grasping plant in a time-lapse video, or cells splitting beneath a microscope. Or a snake swallowing an entire cow. The purity, force, and focus of his hands and the food and his mouth collaborating like a fascinating machine.
“Give me another,” he said, after he swallowed, holding out his hand.
