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“I don’t do personal.”
“Well, I’m glad to announce that I am a professional at personal. So I can take the lead, and you can follow. We can do a little one-two-cha-cha-cha tango of conversation.” I cha-cha’d in front of him. He wasn’t amused.
He blankly blinked six times in a row. “Move.”
“But!”
“I have places to be, all right?!” he snapped. “So move.”
“I will, I swear. After you give me the blueberry scone.”
“You’re a psychopath.”
“Yeah, okay, cool. Call me whatever you want. As long as you give me that scone.”
He grimaced and grumbled with narrowed eyes, “You mean this scone?” He looked down at his package with the scone. He pulled it out slowly and rubbed his fingers all over it.
I didn’t care. I had a public education and survived bobbing for apples in grade school. Germs didn’t freak me out.
“Yes, that one.”
“Oh, okay.” He held it out toward me. Right as I was about to grab it, he shoved it into his mouth and ate the whole thing in three bites.One, two, three.Crumbs dropped to the ground as he aggressively chewed the food in my face. Honestly, most of it didn’t even make it into his mouth. The poor, sweet blueberries fell to the sidewalk, and I felt as if he’d kicked me in the privates from the simple act of caveman-ness.
“Now can you move?” he asked with a full mouth, spitting crumbs in my direction. He dusted the tidbits off his custom black suit and arched a cocky eyebrow.
“You’re a…you’re a…you’re a major asshole!” I blurted out, feeling rage, and disgust, and sad. Mostly sad.
So unbelievably sad.
“I’m not an asshole. I just have asshole tendencies,” he muttered, then sighed. “Why are you doing that?”
“Doing what?”
“Crying.”
“I’m not.”
“Your tear ducts are leaking fluid. That’s called crying.”
I touched my cheeks and shook my head.Well, will you look at that.I was crying. “You shouldn’t have eaten my scone,” I blurted out, becoming a blubbering mess. What was wrong with me? I knew I was an easy crier, but this was a bit ridiculous, even for me.
He cocked an eyebrow and looked more concerned than angry. His mouth parted as if he were going to offer me comfort, but instead, he shut his lips, reached into his front pocket, and handed me his perfectly folded handkerchief.
“Thank you,” I mumbled, blowing my nose in it. I held it back out to him.
He grimaced. “Keep it. Now, for the last and final time, can you move away from my car?”
I stepped to the side.
He climbed into his car and slammed the door behind him. Then his window rolled down, and he looked at me. “If it makes you feel better, it wasn’t even good,” he remarked before raising his window back up.
His driver drove away, leaving me standing there on the curb, surrounded by nothing but crumbs as the reminder of the oddest interaction. The interaction that I, clearly, made uncomfortable.
I did my best to pull myself together even though my nerves were shot. Then I climbed into my car and drove to my next destination. The part of my day that I was dreading the most. I wished I could’ve simply gone back to bed and skipped over the remainder of the day, but life did not come with pause buttons. Sadly enough, each day continued—no matter how much a person needed a break.
2
Stella
