o’clock.”
“Asleep,” Vessa said. “My phone was in my bag.”
“Are you sick?”
“Maybe.” She tried an experimental cough.
“I’m taking you off the schedule this weekend. Don’t be bringing the flu into my restaurant.” Docked hours was the usual punishment for the first no-show offense, as she’d been told her first day. “Be here on Tuesday. Early.”
The phone went dead.
Vessa swore as she dropped her phone back into her bag. She’d not only lost tonight’s shift, she’d lost two more, and weekend patrons usually tipped the best. At this rate she wouldn’t be able to buy a coat for winter, much less afford her adorable loft on her own. She deleted the call history from her phone—it was a futile action, she knew—the calls from the Vermont area code would still show up on the bill, should her number ever be investigated for transgressions.
The buildings across the street filled her window, a nightlife backdrop for a situation comedy. The lawyer’s doorway was marked with a brass plaque, and a palm-shaped sign lined with symbols hung above the psychic’s tearoom. A red neon dragon snarled in the front of the Chinese take-out place.
She walked across the street and ordered two spring rolls and a wonton soup. The restaurant was noisy with customers waiting in chairs, the cooks clanging on woks. A family at a table in the back took the strings out of pea pods, their language full of musical syllables. Vessa sat in a corner, reading the zodiac printed on the paper menu.
She wasn’t as upset as she should have been about losing the hours at the Pizza Piazza. She would have more time to work on Killian’s house. The red flickering light bounced on her skin with the memory of his deep voice saying how much he liked the work she’d done.
He was an enigma, face always the opposite of what she expected, brows twisting together as he gave her compliments, laughing when she’d done the wrong thing. She was nervous around him and his questioning eyes. He never asked, though, and that drew her closer, curious to know how his body would feel against her skin, and how soft his hair would be tangled around her fingers. She had no filter when she was near him. He made her manic, hypersexual, stupidly aware of his proximity, caught up in the creative impulse in his charming little house.
The condoms, in retrospect, might have been a mistake, but the label on the antique tin was too fun to resist. When she’d made the crack about a bathroom sink fuck, his look of disbelief had been priceless, but then he’d blushed, and his broody looks turned boyish and cute.
He’d asked her when she wanted to meet again. She’d nearly blurted “Every day.”
She had an impulse to shock him again. More than his praise, more than the money, more than even the work—the layering of light and shadow and pure color—that brief expression of astonishment, the reconsideration when he’d underestimated her, she wanted that. She’d even dreamed of it. She remembered, just barely, the image slipping away the way dreams did, but the look was real, not a midnight fantasy.
The cook called her name, and she took her bag of food. She ate one roll on the way back up to her apartment, licking the grease off her fingers. The soup was even better.
Sleep didn’t come, even after a shower. At one in the morning she threw some jeans on with her pajama top and swiped a finger of kohl on her eyes, black glitter for a neon night. She drove the ten minutes to the new subdivision, her damp hair curling around her ears.
The lights were on and the door was unlocked. A pair of worn-out sneakers sat in the foyer, man-sized, the laces still tied. The floor in front of the fireplace was covered with building printouts, like newspapers spread for an untrained puppy.
Water trickled somewhere inside the house. “Hello,” she called, and a toilet flushed.
Killian came up the hallway, wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt. His feet were
“Asleep,” Vessa said. “My phone was in my bag.”
“Are you sick?”
“Maybe.” She tried an experimental cough.
“I’m taking you off the schedule this weekend. Don’t be bringing the flu into my restaurant.” Docked hours was the usual punishment for the first no-show offense, as she’d been told her first day. “Be here on Tuesday. Early.”
The phone went dead.
Vessa swore as she dropped her phone back into her bag. She’d not only lost tonight’s shift, she’d lost two more, and weekend patrons usually tipped the best. At this rate she wouldn’t be able to buy a coat for winter, much less afford her adorable loft on her own. She deleted the call history from her phone—it was a futile action, she knew—the calls from the Vermont area code would still show up on the bill, should her number ever be investigated for transgressions.
The buildings across the street filled her window, a nightlife backdrop for a situation comedy. The lawyer’s doorway was marked with a brass plaque, and a palm-shaped sign lined with symbols hung above the psychic’s tearoom. A red neon dragon snarled in the front of the Chinese take-out place.
She walked across the street and ordered two spring rolls and a wonton soup. The restaurant was noisy with customers waiting in chairs, the cooks clanging on woks. A family at a table in the back took the strings out of pea pods, their language full of musical syllables. Vessa sat in a corner, reading the zodiac printed on the paper menu.
She wasn’t as upset as she should have been about losing the hours at the Pizza Piazza. She would have more time to work on Killian’s house. The red flickering light bounced on her skin with the memory of his deep voice saying how much he liked the work she’d done.
He was an enigma, face always the opposite of what she expected, brows twisting together as he gave her compliments, laughing when she’d done the wrong thing. She was nervous around him and his questioning eyes. He never asked, though, and that drew her closer, curious to know how his body would feel against her skin, and how soft his hair would be tangled around her fingers. She had no filter when she was near him. He made her manic, hypersexual, stupidly aware of his proximity, caught up in the creative impulse in his charming little house.
The condoms, in retrospect, might have been a mistake, but the label on the antique tin was too fun to resist. When she’d made the crack about a bathroom sink fuck, his look of disbelief had been priceless, but then he’d blushed, and his broody looks turned boyish and cute.
He’d asked her when she wanted to meet again. She’d nearly blurted “Every day.”
She had an impulse to shock him again. More than his praise, more than the money, more than even the work—the layering of light and shadow and pure color—that brief expression of astonishment, the reconsideration when he’d underestimated her, she wanted that. She’d even dreamed of it. She remembered, just barely, the image slipping away the way dreams did, but the look was real, not a midnight fantasy.
The cook called her name, and she took her bag of food. She ate one roll on the way back up to her apartment, licking the grease off her fingers. The soup was even better.
Sleep didn’t come, even after a shower. At one in the morning she threw some jeans on with her pajama top and swiped a finger of kohl on her eyes, black glitter for a neon night. She drove the ten minutes to the new subdivision, her damp hair curling around her ears.
The lights were on and the door was unlocked. A pair of worn-out sneakers sat in the foyer, man-sized, the laces still tied. The floor in front of the fireplace was covered with building printouts, like newspapers spread for an untrained puppy.
Water trickled somewhere inside the house. “Hello,” she called, and a toilet flushed.
Killian came up the hallway, wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt. His feet were
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