faint aroma of funnel cake.
“Let's
just sit at the bar,” Nicole said.
“Sure.
I'll follow you.”
When
they got to the corner end, he pulled out a chair for her. It wasn't a careful
or gallant gesture; rather, he did it very casually, dragging the chair out in
a quick motion. Still, it was charming. Michael seemed to have this
rough-around-the-edges realness to him—an unpracticed kind of chivalry.
The
only other patrons at the bar were the man and woman sitting diagonally across
from them. The woman had a mass of curly red hair piled on her head. She
whispered in the ear of her companion, who chuckled in response. Every time
the man smiled, he exposed a set of pointy, feral-looking teeth. The woman
clutched the sleeve of his black shirt with long nails that were painted
silver.
“Want
something to drink?” Michael asked her.
Once
they both had Cokes in front of them, Michael said, “So tell me, Nicole, what's
your story? Is it just you in that house?”
“Yes,
just me.”
“You
look way too young to be retired.”
“I
inherited the house,” she explained, skirting the employment topic. “Recently,
in fact. From my aunt—she was also my Godmother. I'm staying here to take
care of a few things. Normally I live in Boston .”
“Oh,
I see. You're from Boston originally?”
“ Lexington , Mass. It's about half
an hour outside the city.”
“I
know where it is. Pretty upscale place.”
She
shrugged vaguely. “My parents still live there. Well, not together, but...I
also lived in Chicago for a few years, too.”
At
this point, Nicole gave Michael the brief rundown: that she majored in English
at the University of Chicago , received a
degree in Comparative Lit, and then moved back to Boston for her MLS.
“MLS?”
he asked.
“Master's
of Library Science,” she explained. Tilting her head, she added, “Yes, it's
true. Don't let my 20-20 vision and aversion to low ponytails fool you. I
am—in fact—a librarian.”
With
a quiet laugh, Michael nodded approvingly. “Wow—a whole new twist on my
librarian fantasy.” Nicole faltered for a second, felt herself blush. Michael
seemed to catch himself. He took two menus from across the bar and passed her
one. “So where do you work, BPL?”
“No—well,
nowhere right now,” she answered. As always, she felt a little self-conscious
about being laid off. “Before I lost my job, I had been working at Hill House
Collections—that's a small library specializing in Boston history—”
“Oh,
Bunker Hill and all that?”
“Exactly...and
all that,” she said dryly. (Call it librarian's intuition, but she had a
feeling that Michael King wasn't exactly her bookish history-loving male
counterpart.) “Anyway, Hill House lost funding, so the staff was cut in half
last month.” In trite summary, she said, “It's just one of those things. But
enough about me. What about you? Where did you go to school?”
“Hmm...well,
I'd like to say ‘The School of Life,’ but then I'd have to stamp ‘Asshole’on
my forehead. Because who’d really say that, right?”
A
laugh escaped from her and she nodded, “I guess.” Really, though—she supposed
she shouldn't have just assumed he had gone to college. She hoped he wasn't
offended. And what if he had wanted to, but couldn't afford it!
Luckily,
he didn't seem bothered. Instead, he was looking at her neck. “Is that from
what happened on the beach?” he said, speaking more softly.
“Oh...yeah...”
She touched her hand to the bruise. “It looks worse than it is.”
Just
then a loud, rippling laugh drew their attention. They looked over—it was the
redhead across from them, apparently taken with something hilarious. She
squeezed her companion's arm, but glanced at Michael. Then she flashed him a
smile.
Nicole
felt an irrational stab of jealousy.
Abruptly
the redhead hopped off her chair and
“Let's
just sit at the bar,” Nicole said.
“Sure.
I'll follow you.”
When
they got to the corner end, he pulled out a chair for her. It wasn't a careful
or gallant gesture; rather, he did it very casually, dragging the chair out in
a quick motion. Still, it was charming. Michael seemed to have this
rough-around-the-edges realness to him—an unpracticed kind of chivalry.
The
only other patrons at the bar were the man and woman sitting diagonally across
from them. The woman had a mass of curly red hair piled on her head. She
whispered in the ear of her companion, who chuckled in response. Every time
the man smiled, he exposed a set of pointy, feral-looking teeth. The woman
clutched the sleeve of his black shirt with long nails that were painted
silver.
“Want
something to drink?” Michael asked her.
Once
they both had Cokes in front of them, Michael said, “So tell me, Nicole, what's
your story? Is it just you in that house?”
“Yes,
just me.”
“You
look way too young to be retired.”
“I
inherited the house,” she explained, skirting the employment topic. “Recently,
in fact. From my aunt—she was also my Godmother. I'm staying here to take
care of a few things. Normally I live in Boston .”
“Oh,
I see. You're from Boston originally?”
“ Lexington , Mass. It's about half
an hour outside the city.”
“I
know where it is. Pretty upscale place.”
She
shrugged vaguely. “My parents still live there. Well, not together, but...I
also lived in Chicago for a few years, too.”
At
this point, Nicole gave Michael the brief rundown: that she majored in English
at the University of Chicago , received a
degree in Comparative Lit, and then moved back to Boston for her MLS.
“MLS?”
he asked.
“Master's
of Library Science,” she explained. Tilting her head, she added, “Yes, it's
true. Don't let my 20-20 vision and aversion to low ponytails fool you. I
am—in fact—a librarian.”
With
a quiet laugh, Michael nodded approvingly. “Wow—a whole new twist on my
librarian fantasy.” Nicole faltered for a second, felt herself blush. Michael
seemed to catch himself. He took two menus from across the bar and passed her
one. “So where do you work, BPL?”
“No—well,
nowhere right now,” she answered. As always, she felt a little self-conscious
about being laid off. “Before I lost my job, I had been working at Hill House
Collections—that's a small library specializing in Boston history—”
“Oh,
Bunker Hill and all that?”
“Exactly...and
all that,” she said dryly. (Call it librarian's intuition, but she had a
feeling that Michael King wasn't exactly her bookish history-loving male
counterpart.) “Anyway, Hill House lost funding, so the staff was cut in half
last month.” In trite summary, she said, “It's just one of those things. But
enough about me. What about you? Where did you go to school?”
“Hmm...well,
I'd like to say ‘The School of Life,’ but then I'd have to stamp ‘Asshole’on
my forehead. Because who’d really say that, right?”
A
laugh escaped from her and she nodded, “I guess.” Really, though—she supposed
she shouldn't have just assumed he had gone to college. She hoped he wasn't
offended. And what if he had wanted to, but couldn't afford it!
Luckily,
he didn't seem bothered. Instead, he was looking at her neck. “Is that from
what happened on the beach?” he said, speaking more softly.
“Oh...yeah...”
She touched her hand to the bruise. “It looks worse than it is.”
Just
then a loud, rippling laugh drew their attention. They looked over—it was the
redhead across from them, apparently taken with something hilarious. She
squeezed her companion's arm, but glanced at Michael. Then she flashed him a
smile.
Nicole
felt an irrational stab of jealousy.
Abruptly
the redhead hopped off her chair and