little roasted shallot sauce then, wasn’t he?
“I’ll tell the Professor. Your promise,” Caruzo shoutedfrom the front door, startling everybody in the place before disappearing out into the drizzle.
“Sorry,” Jeremy said. “He’s a family friend.” He took their orders, glad suddenly, overwhelmingly, that there was a morning service. What other signs did he need? And what would he be doing without them? Sleepless in his apartment, looking out over the park and wondering.
“Iced tea, please.”
“Made here,” he said automatically, distracted, smelling her before he looked up, a blend of patchouli and CK.
“Smelt fritters yet?” she asked.
He looked finally. Fantastic blue eyes, angelic face. Had he seen her before? He thought so, once or twice. She hung out with the design students. He had looked before but looked away. A bit young, twenty-two, twenty-three. “Fritters,” he said. “Everyone wants fritters. I throw them on ten-ish. What is it now?”
She consulted a gold nurse’s watch pinned to her black velvet pants. Narrow shoulders, small round head with short white hair, tiny lobeless ears. Scrubbed-clean symmetrical features and frosted coral lips. She wore a tight orange sweater with blue athletic stripes around the right sleeve. North Star runners. Faux school gear strapped tightly around a Barbie from the toy section of the 1978 Sears catalogue.
“Nine-ish,” she said, a tongue stud glinting as she spoke.
She was waiting for his answer. He could feel the appraisal. Of his decoder-ring tattoo. (His was on his right forearm, Popeye-style. Olli had demurely gone for the shoulder, invisible most of the time.) Of the cowboy boots and Wrangler jeans he typically wore before dinner service. He saw her take it all in. And when she looked back up to his face, she laughed a little through her nose. Laughed as if she had just had an idea that pleased her.
“Close enough,” he said. “It’ll take me about twenty minutes.”
“I’ll be in the window,” she said, still smiling.
“And the name?” he asked, his pen hovering over the pad. He might need it to call out from the counter. It was a good idea to get it.
“Benny,” she said. Then she walked away slowly. Moved across his oak planks towards the high arch of his front window. Split up into its many panes, each one now crying streams of spring rain onto the pane below. Streams that pooled at the base of the brick front wall and ran off down the sidewalk vaguely seeking the sea. The sky was coming down now. There it was on his window, outside his door. Tapping audibly on his glass above his oblivious slacker customers (who rocked back in their chairs and blew smoke upwards, laughed loudly all at once, and did any confident thing that came to mind).
Oblivious but for one, who folded her arms across her rib cage under her sweatered breasts. She lowered her chin as if to listen to the current monologue, lids set in an expression of rigorous boredom. But with her head turned slightly to observe Jeremy at the back of the restaurant, to assess whether the ray she had beamed out had been received.
He had finished entering her order, taken his boot off the chair behind the counter and walked over to the kitchen door. He had his hand on the wood, leaning forward to push it open. But he was thinking about something. Benny waited.
He turned and glanced back.
Benny caught the glance and turned her head slowly back to the conversation, betraying no satisfaction, although she knew. Of course she knew.
Jeremy turned his head more quickly and went into the kitchen. He put the smelts in salty beer batter almost as light as tempura. And when he lowered the basket into the fryer, the oil frothed around the slender fish. They would crispdown in a few minutes into a crunchy mouthful, which, dipped in tartar mayonnaise, rivalled any french fry.
“Benny,” he called when they were ready. She got up slowly, came over.
“Thanks, Jay,” she said.
“I’ll tell the Professor. Your promise,” Caruzo shoutedfrom the front door, startling everybody in the place before disappearing out into the drizzle.
“Sorry,” Jeremy said. “He’s a family friend.” He took their orders, glad suddenly, overwhelmingly, that there was a morning service. What other signs did he need? And what would he be doing without them? Sleepless in his apartment, looking out over the park and wondering.
“Iced tea, please.”
“Made here,” he said automatically, distracted, smelling her before he looked up, a blend of patchouli and CK.
“Smelt fritters yet?” she asked.
He looked finally. Fantastic blue eyes, angelic face. Had he seen her before? He thought so, once or twice. She hung out with the design students. He had looked before but looked away. A bit young, twenty-two, twenty-three. “Fritters,” he said. “Everyone wants fritters. I throw them on ten-ish. What is it now?”
She consulted a gold nurse’s watch pinned to her black velvet pants. Narrow shoulders, small round head with short white hair, tiny lobeless ears. Scrubbed-clean symmetrical features and frosted coral lips. She wore a tight orange sweater with blue athletic stripes around the right sleeve. North Star runners. Faux school gear strapped tightly around a Barbie from the toy section of the 1978 Sears catalogue.
“Nine-ish,” she said, a tongue stud glinting as she spoke.
She was waiting for his answer. He could feel the appraisal. Of his decoder-ring tattoo. (His was on his right forearm, Popeye-style. Olli had demurely gone for the shoulder, invisible most of the time.) Of the cowboy boots and Wrangler jeans he typically wore before dinner service. He saw her take it all in. And when she looked back up to his face, she laughed a little through her nose. Laughed as if she had just had an idea that pleased her.
“Close enough,” he said. “It’ll take me about twenty minutes.”
“I’ll be in the window,” she said, still smiling.
“And the name?” he asked, his pen hovering over the pad. He might need it to call out from the counter. It was a good idea to get it.
“Benny,” she said. Then she walked away slowly. Moved across his oak planks towards the high arch of his front window. Split up into its many panes, each one now crying streams of spring rain onto the pane below. Streams that pooled at the base of the brick front wall and ran off down the sidewalk vaguely seeking the sea. The sky was coming down now. There it was on his window, outside his door. Tapping audibly on his glass above his oblivious slacker customers (who rocked back in their chairs and blew smoke upwards, laughed loudly all at once, and did any confident thing that came to mind).
Oblivious but for one, who folded her arms across her rib cage under her sweatered breasts. She lowered her chin as if to listen to the current monologue, lids set in an expression of rigorous boredom. But with her head turned slightly to observe Jeremy at the back of the restaurant, to assess whether the ray she had beamed out had been received.
He had finished entering her order, taken his boot off the chair behind the counter and walked over to the kitchen door. He had his hand on the wood, leaning forward to push it open. But he was thinking about something. Benny waited.
He turned and glanced back.
Benny caught the glance and turned her head slowly back to the conversation, betraying no satisfaction, although she knew. Of course she knew.
Jeremy turned his head more quickly and went into the kitchen. He put the smelts in salty beer batter almost as light as tempura. And when he lowered the basket into the fryer, the oil frothed around the slender fish. They would crispdown in a few minutes into a crunchy mouthful, which, dipped in tartar mayonnaise, rivalled any french fry.
“Benny,” he called when they were ready. She got up slowly, came over.
“Thanks, Jay,” she said.
Similar Books
