come in here—”
“Dinner’s on me,” he says with a wink. “I’m Isaac, by the way. What’s your name?”
“They call me Dovey.”
“Nice to meet you, Dovey.”
He holds out a hand over the bar, and I take it, and it’s cold and smooth and hard. I can’t make myself let go, but he just chuckles and manages to untangle my fingers.
“You look like you’re having a rough night,” he says. “Let me get you a plate. Keep sipping, okay?”
I remember my Shirley Temple and take a long drink. There’s a plastic sword perched on the side, and I slide the maraschino cherry off with my teeth. I’m swinging the sword and making chopping noises when he turns around, even better-looking than I remember, carrying a platter heaping with barbecue and macaroni and cheese and green beans. I’m salivating before the smell hits me, and by the time he sets it on the bar in front of me, I’m already reaching to grab a handful with my fingers.
“Whoa, girl. Wait for a fork. Let’s not be savages,” he says playfully, and I grin along with him.
“I haven’t eaten in years,” I say, unrolling the napkin of silverware he handed me and digging in to stuff my face.
“It’s food for what ails you,” he says, but the corner of his mouth tips down, and for just a second his eyes look sad. Or is it guilty? But once the food hits my lips, it doesn’t matter anymore. This food is the best thing I’ve ever eaten, better even than Carly’s mama’s dinner or my grandmother’s Sunday lunch. What have I been eating for the last year? Charcoal and sawdust. I eat forkful after forkful, gulping it down with sips of the Shirley Temple, which always seems full even though I never see him refill it. Isaac watches me, shines glasses, hands me paper napkins, and gives me another tiny sword with three cherries on it this time.
I eat those, too.
When I finally hear the sound of metal scrape on porcelain, my stomach twists with the sharp sting of regret.
“Seconds?” I say hopefully.
“Sorry.” Isaac gives me another dimpled grin. “It’s all you may eat, not all you can eat.”
He whisks the platter away, and I console myself with a slurp of Shirley Temple. Then that, too, comes up empty. I take one last, loud suck with my straw and concede defeat.
“We’re about to close, you know,” he says. “Do you need me to walk you back to your car?”
“I don’t know where I am.” And even though I’ve lived in this city my entire life, I realize that I have no idea how I came here or how to get back where I belong. “I followed . . .”
“You followed your nose, Dovey,” he says, leaning over to look deeply into my eyes. I gasp. I can’t look away. His eyes are so bright and blue and pulling that I grab the bar, trying not to get sucked in. This must be what it feels like to jump out of an airplane and fall into a cloudless sky.
“It just smelled so good,” I say, practically pleading.
“Yes, it did. And you know how to get home.”
“I know how to get home.”
“Good.”
“Can I come back?”
“I hope you won’t. Good-bye, Billie Dove.”
“Good-bye.”
He hands me another plastic sword with three cherries dripping shiny red juice onto the bar. I pop them into my mouth and hand him the sword. Against my will I push off from the bar and stand. My feet feel like they’re twenty feet away, like I’m on stilts. I wobble toward the door like I’ve been shoved. Pressing my hands against the wood, I turn to thank Isaac, but he’s already gone. The bar is empty. The lamps all go out at once, and I hurry out the door to escape the palpable menace of the empty room.
Back on the street nothing is familiar, but I’m already moving. I walk, step after step, down sidewalks haunted by shadows, past skeletal trees and lumps that could be bums or monsters or worse. The wind rips past me, ruffling my hair, and I hunch against it. I can’t quite remember what I was doing. Looking for someone? It’slike
“Dinner’s on me,” he says with a wink. “I’m Isaac, by the way. What’s your name?”
“They call me Dovey.”
“Nice to meet you, Dovey.”
He holds out a hand over the bar, and I take it, and it’s cold and smooth and hard. I can’t make myself let go, but he just chuckles and manages to untangle my fingers.
“You look like you’re having a rough night,” he says. “Let me get you a plate. Keep sipping, okay?”
I remember my Shirley Temple and take a long drink. There’s a plastic sword perched on the side, and I slide the maraschino cherry off with my teeth. I’m swinging the sword and making chopping noises when he turns around, even better-looking than I remember, carrying a platter heaping with barbecue and macaroni and cheese and green beans. I’m salivating before the smell hits me, and by the time he sets it on the bar in front of me, I’m already reaching to grab a handful with my fingers.
“Whoa, girl. Wait for a fork. Let’s not be savages,” he says playfully, and I grin along with him.
“I haven’t eaten in years,” I say, unrolling the napkin of silverware he handed me and digging in to stuff my face.
“It’s food for what ails you,” he says, but the corner of his mouth tips down, and for just a second his eyes look sad. Or is it guilty? But once the food hits my lips, it doesn’t matter anymore. This food is the best thing I’ve ever eaten, better even than Carly’s mama’s dinner or my grandmother’s Sunday lunch. What have I been eating for the last year? Charcoal and sawdust. I eat forkful after forkful, gulping it down with sips of the Shirley Temple, which always seems full even though I never see him refill it. Isaac watches me, shines glasses, hands me paper napkins, and gives me another tiny sword with three cherries on it this time.
I eat those, too.
When I finally hear the sound of metal scrape on porcelain, my stomach twists with the sharp sting of regret.
“Seconds?” I say hopefully.
“Sorry.” Isaac gives me another dimpled grin. “It’s all you may eat, not all you can eat.”
He whisks the platter away, and I console myself with a slurp of Shirley Temple. Then that, too, comes up empty. I take one last, loud suck with my straw and concede defeat.
“We’re about to close, you know,” he says. “Do you need me to walk you back to your car?”
“I don’t know where I am.” And even though I’ve lived in this city my entire life, I realize that I have no idea how I came here or how to get back where I belong. “I followed . . .”
“You followed your nose, Dovey,” he says, leaning over to look deeply into my eyes. I gasp. I can’t look away. His eyes are so bright and blue and pulling that I grab the bar, trying not to get sucked in. This must be what it feels like to jump out of an airplane and fall into a cloudless sky.
“It just smelled so good,” I say, practically pleading.
“Yes, it did. And you know how to get home.”
“I know how to get home.”
“Good.”
“Can I come back?”
“I hope you won’t. Good-bye, Billie Dove.”
“Good-bye.”
He hands me another plastic sword with three cherries dripping shiny red juice onto the bar. I pop them into my mouth and hand him the sword. Against my will I push off from the bar and stand. My feet feel like they’re twenty feet away, like I’m on stilts. I wobble toward the door like I’ve been shoved. Pressing my hands against the wood, I turn to thank Isaac, but he’s already gone. The bar is empty. The lamps all go out at once, and I hurry out the door to escape the palpable menace of the empty room.
Back on the street nothing is familiar, but I’m already moving. I walk, step after step, down sidewalks haunted by shadows, past skeletal trees and lumps that could be bums or monsters or worse. The wind rips past me, ruffling my hair, and I hunch against it. I can’t quite remember what I was doing. Looking for someone? It’slike
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