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It was obvious back when I used to talk that something was wrong with my voice.
Everyone always laughed when I spoke.
I couldn’t hear myself, so I couldn’t fix what was wrong or different, and it was too hard to keep trying when everyone always made fun.
No one wants to feel like a walking punchline to a joke.
“I’m sorry you stopped,” he says, running his hand through his hair again.
I shrug. I’m not sorry I stopped talking. It let me fade into the background a whole lot easier around other people. It stopped them from making fun of me as easily, and it stopped me from caring about trying to communicate in the way it made the most sense to other people.
I’m not interested in being friends with anyone who would be mean to me, and since that covers a lot of the people around here, I’m happy with the amount of effort I put in to make them more comfortable.
“Anyway,” he goes on, “I just … I was hoping we could maybe spend some time together, one night.”
I raise an eyebrow at him and gesture to my apron.
“Oh,” he says. “I meant after work. When do you finish up?”
I see the watch on his arm, and I step closer, touching the gold strap.
He takes it off and hands it to me. I look at the dial and point to nine p.m. on it.
He looks shocked when I look back at his face.
I’m sure most of the pack know kitchen duty’s the hardest shift in town, but he seems aghast.
“But … you’re here first thing in the morning,” he says, frowning at me. “Every day. That’s the time you guys finish up here at night? Every night?”
I nod, then sign, “Yes.”
“Holy … That’s a long shift.”
It’s a long shift that his father put in place years ago.
He blinks at me. “I can understand why you don’t date.”
I raise my eyebrows at him. He thinks anyone around here would want to date me? I mean, besides him, if he’s actually serious about that.
He can’t be that oblivious.
“I mean … I’ll speak to my father. There must be a way to split the shifts between more people.”
I shrug, not sure he’s serious, and doubting his father will listen even if he is.
“If I can get you a day off,” he starts, his cheeks flushing a little. “Will you agree to go on a date with me?”
I can’t help the smile the thought of a day off brings out.
He smiles back and I start to feel the faintest twinge of butterflies in my stomach.
It’s a sweet gesture, if he can pull it off.
It’s probably not going to happen, but I won’t be mad if it does.
I nod, signing, “Yes,” again.
He copies me this time. “This means yes, right?”
