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“Nora, you’re a saint. You made my day,” Priya says.
“Well, you made mine!” Nora gushes. It’s sweet watching Priya interact with her fans. She’s always the picture of poise and grace, unlike some people.
Vince fixates on the rotating hotdog skewers, watching the grease shimmer.
I deadpan, “Is this your new favorite show?”
“I’m trying to select the right one. It’s like fishing. It’s all about timing.”
“Is it now?” I goad.
“Yes, it is! Aha!”
With a paper plate and bun ready, he reaches in, ignoring the tongs beside the case, and grabs a hotdog from the skewer. He holds it up high like a prize before watching in horror as the grease lubricates his hand, causing the hot dog to slip out of his hand and land on the beige tile floor with a SPLAT.
Vince’s face falls. His eyes look downcast before he shrugs and reaches down onto the floor, grabbing the hot dog and depositing it on his plate.
“Five-second rule!” he declares, wiping his hand with a nearby napkin and doctoring up the hot dog with mustard and relish.
“No, no! Not the five-second rule! Henry? Apollo! Anyone, help!” I exclaim.
“What’s this now?” Henry asks. He’s perusing a nearby rack of Sudoku booklets.
“Vince is trying to eat a floor hot dog!”
“It was on the floor for approximately three seconds,” Vince clarifies.
“The floor of a gas station!” I hiss in a whisper.
“I’ll be fine!” Vince declares. To emphasize his point, he stuffs the hotdog into his mouth, takes a huge bite, and then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
“He will be fine,” Henry reassures me. “The man has an immune system of steel, seriously. He needs to be studied.”
“What happened?” Apollo asks, grabbing a pack of sunflower seeds.
“Vince ate a hot dog off the floor, and it’s disturbing Lyndsey.”
“Oh, he’ll be fine.”
“Well, is no one going to talk about how it’s 9 a.m. and he’s eating a hot dog for breakfast?”
Apollo shrugs. “No time for brunch.”
Vince finishes the rest of his hot dog. “I needed the protein!”
“Well then, eat a protein bar like a normal person!”
“Those taste like sawdust.”
“That is true,” Henry adds.
We pay for our snacks and pile back onto the bus. Vince sprawls on the leather couch, his head resting on my laptop and legs spread out.
I begin, “Um …”
He jolts upward as the bus pulls out of the parking lot. He grumbles, “Shit, sorry, love. I mean, Lyndsey. Sorry.”
“It’s all good. I just need to check some emails and confirm our time for load-in,” I explain.
