Good, I’ve got him talking about lots of things that aren’t me, and I can settle in and listen. Not sure what he means by it being a strange town. Yeah, there are talking cats, and I’ve heard rumors about the carnival, but I haven’t seen anything that’d make my hair stand up. I guess I’m better off not knowing, then, and I’ve had good luck so far. If I could just get another job, and find…. I stop that right there. I’m feeling very good right now, got coffee and a pleasant soreness that’s not quite enough to make me limp, and a gorgeous man wanting to talk to me. This day is turning out far too well for if I could justs.
When he says the past few months were interesting, sounds like he doesn’t mean in a good way. “Like last year was interesting for me?” I can’t help but add. Don’t ask him how, though, and hope he won’t ask me how about mine. He kicks a rock like he’s mad at it, and then he’s staring off and talking about someone who must be the woman who jilted him.
I follow his eyes to the little tea shop and almost spit out the mouthful of coffee I’ve just taken. Because I know who runs that place. Met her before, if you can call it meeting, what happened during the riot. Hope he doesn’t see that there’s anything wrong with me. And maybe I’m wrong. Maybe he just picked a place to stare at, and he’s thinking of someone not redheaded and crazy at all. Maybe…
I swallow my coffee and clear my throat. “Not meaning to pry, doc, but would I know her at all, your fiancée? Because I’m thinking that I might, just to look at her, is all. And her name, maybe. That’s all.” That, and the small matter of her getting intimately acquainted with my fist in the middle of a goddamned riot. I stop talking before it sounds any more awkward. How the hell to I get myself into these things? If he thinks I slept with her, he might be the kind of man to remember the list I gave him of things I don’t like. And I’m sure he has any number of nice shiny knives back in his office and knows how to use them, too.
no subject
When he says the past few months were interesting, sounds like he doesn’t mean in a good way. “Like last year was interesting for me?” I can’t help but add. Don’t ask him how, though, and hope he won’t ask me how about mine. He kicks a rock like he’s mad at it, and then he’s staring off and talking about someone who must be the woman who jilted him.
I follow his eyes to the little tea shop and almost spit out the mouthful of coffee I’ve just taken. Because I know who runs that place. Met her before, if you can call it meeting, what happened during the riot. Hope he doesn’t see that there’s anything wrong with me. And maybe I’m wrong. Maybe he just picked a place to stare at, and he’s thinking of someone not redheaded and crazy at all. Maybe…
I swallow my coffee and clear my throat. “Not meaning to pry, doc, but would I know her at all, your fiancée? Because I’m thinking that I might, just to look at her, is all. And her name, maybe. That’s all.” That, and the small matter of her getting intimately acquainted with my fist in the middle of a goddamned riot. I stop talking before it sounds any more awkward. How the hell to I get myself into these things? If he thinks I slept with her, he might be the kind of man to remember the list I gave him of things I don’t like. And I’m sure he has any number of nice shiny knives back in his office and knows how to use them, too.