The Handbook for Lightning Strike Survivors by Michele Young-Stone Page A

Abigail. “I found a man for you. Because I’m intuitive, I’m skilled at this type of thing. I’ve known him a long time, and after you and I met, I just knew you two should be together.”
    “Please tell me you’re kidding.”
    “You have to meet him. That’s all I ask.”
    “No way. I am done with men.”
    “Fine, Abigail,” Sissy said, “but men have to eat too, and I’m not kidding when I say that I’m gifted at matchmaking.”
    “Please don’t bring any men in here to meet me. I’m serious.”
    “Men have to eat. That’s all I’m saying.”
    Two days later, Padraig John sat across from Sissy at one ofAbigail’s tables. He had boot black shoulder-length hair and a full mustache. It was October, but ninety-two degrees. He fanned himself with the greasy menu. “I don’t know what I want,” he said when Abigail came to take their order.
    “Take your time.”
    “Why don’t you sit down?” Sissy said—immediately clueing Abigail in that this was the man she wanted her to meet. He was weathered; his nose angled slightly to the left, as if maybe it’d been broken once or twice.
    “I’m working.”
    “There’s no one else here.”
    “I need to fill the saltshakers.”
    Sissy said, “Do it later.”
    “Sit,” said Padraig John, still fanning himself. “You’re making me nervous.”
    Abigail sat in the rickety plastic chair beside Sissy. She smoothed her green apron over her thighs.
    “Sissy tells me you’re new to town.”
    Abigail thought,
He’s put the menu down. He’s never going to order. I’m going to have to sit and make small talk
. “I’m from Arkansas.”
How can he order with the menu under his elbow?
    “Whereabouts?”
    “It doesn’t matter.”
    “Jesus god, Abby,” Sissy said.
    “What?”
    “It’s a reasonable enough question.”
    “Mont Blanc,” Abigail said.
    “Never heard of it.”
    “No one has.”
    “Abigail loves the ocean,” Sissy said. “She’d never seen it until she moved here two months ago. Paddy John loves the ocean too.”
    “I have a son named Buckley,” Abigail said. She hoped itwould discourage Paddy John. He might order sooner than later. Besides, she liked putting her cards on the table.
    “My boy’s name is Tide,” Padraig John said.
    “How old is he?”
    “Five. He was born when I was over there.”
    “Over where?”
    Sissy said, “Paddy John was in ’Nam. I thought I told you that.”
    “How old is your boy?” Paddy John asked.
    “Buckley’s thirteen.”
    “Sadly,” Paddy John said, “I’ve only known my boy a year.”
    “Your wife must like the ocean to name your son Tide.”
    “My wife’s a loony hippie.”
    “She’s his ex-wife, and she’s not a loony hippie. She’s a drug addict. There’s nothing wrong with hippies, and there’s everything wrong with drug addicts.”
    “I’m sorry.”
    “Me too.” Padraig John picked up the menu again and began fanning himself. A bluish-gray seagull flew past close to their window.
    Abigail said, “I love birds.”
    “I told you Abigail was far out.”
    “Are you ready to order?” She hadn’t intended to be “far out.”
    Paddy John set the menu back down and rested his head in his hand. “It was nice to meet you. I don’t want to bother you, and I have more baggage than any woman need carry.” He turned to Sissy. “Let’s go.”
    “Why?”
    “Don’t go,” Abigail said, feeling sorry for the man. “What can I get you?”
    Paddy John scanned the menu. “What do you recommend?” While Abigail thought about it, Paddy John said, “Can you do something about that?”
    “About what?” Abigail asked, pencil and pad in hand. She wasgoing to recommend the meat loaf. It was spectacular, and he looked like a meat loaf kind of guy. She smiled.
    “Can you do anything about the skin hanging at your neck and off your arms?”
    “What do you want to order? I have work to do.”
    “Jesus god, Paddy. What the fuck’s wrong with you?” Sissy asked.
    “It’s a