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Lark McCapSnatcher: I’ll see you tomorrow.
Friday Reed marches up to me with her hands on her hips. “What are your intentions with Lark?”
I grin at her. “None of your business.”
“Fuck that,” she says. She picks up a pair of scissors and ad
vances toward me. I immediately cover my package and step back.
“All right, all right,” I say, like I’m surrendering to the cops. Trust me, you’d surrender too if you had a pixie with fangs coming at you with a pair of scissors, looking like she’s going to shear your balls off and fry them with eggs for breakfast. “I really like her.”
“Like her like her?” she asks.
“How many ways are there to like her?”
“Like, could love her like her?” She stares me down.
“Like, want to get to know her more like her. Like, can’t stop thinking about her like her. Like, I’m irritated that she’s been busy all week like her.”
“But she’s hearing.”
“I know.”
“You don’t date hearing girls.”
“I didn’t date hearing girls. Then I met Lark.” I shrug.
She grins and shoves my shoulder. “Can I give you some advice?”
“Like I could stop you.”
She looks supremely satisfied. “Keep doing exactly what you’re doing.” She shrugs. “That’s all.”
“I was going to do that anyway.”
“But now you have my permission to keep doing it.”
“Thank you?” I say with a question mark at the end. What do you say to that? Really?
“You’re welcome.” She fluffs her short little skirt. “I know it’s totally breaking the girl code, but I’m going to go ahead and tell you that she really likes you. A lot.”
“Thanks.”
“She talked about you last night.”
“Okay.” See, the thing is, with Friday Reed, you don’t have to prompt her. She’s going to tell you what she thinks no matter what. I’m aware of that. Her husband Paul gives me a thumbs-up from behind her back. She follows my eyes, turning to look at him, and then he turns his thumbs-up into a head scratch.
“Keep up the good work,” she says to me. Then she flounces off to do whatever it is that Friday does. Like drink warm blood. Or torture small penis-shaped pin cushions with sharp needles.
***
On Saturday, I keep looking toward the door, hoping to see the sheen of Lark’s ponytail or the brown of her eyes, but so far it’s just one soldier after another.
The Reeds do tattoos for soldiers at a discount, and once word got around, we got flooded with people dropping by the shop. Since I’m the new guy, I don’t have a lot of regular clients, and I get a lot of walk-ins. At least my days have stayed busy. And I love to do tattoos for soldiers. I usually get to hear the stories behind the tattoos, with one of the Reeds translating for me, and I have nothing but respect for the men and women who protect our freedom. I finish up with a client and he tries to give me a big tip, but the honor was mine, so I shove it back to him.
I pull my phone out and search the screen for a text from Lark. She’s two minutes late for her appointment. The lights flash as the front door of the shop opens, and finally she walks through it. Her eyes meet mine and I can’t stand still. I walk toward her. But right behind her is a tall man with long salt-and-pepper hair that’s pulled back in a ponytail at the nape of his neck. He intercepts me, getting between me and her.
“Excuse me,” I sign, moving my mouth with the words so he’ll understand (1) that I’m deaf, and (2) that I want to get to Lark. I walk around him and go straight to her. I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy to see someone. Not since Christmas of ’99 when I caught Santa leaving presents under our Christmas tree. He looked a lot like my dad.
