Less Than Nothing by R.E. Blake

probably a difference that’s lost on many, but to me, it’s a big one.
    “Are you sure about this?” I ask.
    “We might have gotten off at the wrong stop,” he says, eyeing the shambling bum. We push past him as he calls out for some spare change, but we ignore him and keep moving, picking up our pace as we do. Derek looks down at me, and I see the faint smile, and even though I know he’s not bulletproof and invisible, I feel safer. If he’s not worried, I’m not.
    We turn a corner and a faded red neon sign flickers at us in the dark.
    “Tony Soprano’s?” I ask. “For real?”
    “It’s got the best lasagna I ever had.”
    “It looks like an armpit.”
    “The salad rocks, too. Best of all, it’s cheaper than dirt.”
    I eye it skeptically. “No extra charge for the cockroaches.”
    “They add a nutty flavor. You’ll like it.”
    “I thought they tasted like chicken.”
    “Nutty chicken. Crunchy, when done right.”
    “Gross.”
    “You can always send them back if they’re undercooked.”
    We shoulder our way through the weathered double doors. Inside, it smells like garlic and oregano. A small man with a weasel face approaches with a frown, which softens when he sees Derek.
    “Eh, you bring a friend?” he says to Derek with an accent straight out of central casting.
    “My new business partner,” Derek says in a serious tone.
    Weasel guy looks me up and down, and I feel like I need to take a shower after he’s done.
    “Right thisa way,” he says and directs us to a booth in a gloomy corner by the bathrooms and kitchen. The vinyl seat is cracked, and the red and white checkerboard plastic tablecloth is sticky, which he remedies with a swipe from a moist rag that looks like it’s also used for oil changes.
    We order tap water to drink, which gets a smug smirk, and I look at the menu, which as Derek said, is inexpensive and large. A platter of lasagna goes by from the kitchen, and my mouth floods, cockroaches or no.
    “Don’t let the fancy interior scare you off. The food’s good,” Derek says. “Huge portions, though, so unless you’re starving, we might want to split something.”
    We negotiate back and forth and agree on a large salad to start, with lasagna for the main course. The waiter, who’s the host’s uglier, meaner twin, takes our order without comment, like he’s late for something really important and got stuck with our table after losing a bet.
    When the bread comes, the aroma is like nothing on this earth. Derek excuses himself and goes to the bathroom to wash his hands, and I sit, salivating, waiting for him to get back so I can do the same.
    He returns and it’s my turn. The bathroom is everything the exterior of the restaurant promised and then some, and I wonder whether the place used to be a prison. I inspect my face in the mirror once I’ve dried my hands, and for the first time in years wish I had a little mascara and some rouge. Maybe even lip gloss.
    I’ve always been a tomboy. I see nothing wrong with that. Whenever I see girls like Melody, who are so comfortable being all girly girl, I’m sure there’s something broken inside me, but I quickly snap out of it. Standing here tonight, though, looking at my plain reflection, I wish I was different, just for a while. Like one of the starlets that adorn the tabloids and glamour magazines I pass at the newsstand.
    My throat tightens, and I feel like I can’t swallow. I pat some cold water on my face and stare myself down as I murmur to the girl in the mirror. “Boo hoo. Poor you. Don’t look like a Playboy bunny or a complete whore. Wahhh.”
    The self-talk helps. It usually does. I have a zero tolerance policy for letting myself get away with any bullshit. Bad things can happen when you’re distracted by your circumstances, so it’s better to get over it than wallow in the pity pool.
    My cell vibrates against my butt, startling me, and I pull it out. It’s Melody.
    You in the honeymoon suite with dream