Torture to Her Soul
Page 36
He moves fluidly, despite his age.
Cool.
Confident.
He owns the place.
He whistles loudly as he works, like an oversize dwarf right out of Snow White, the off-key tune the only noise in the place above the chatter. There are no televisions, no music, no Wi-Fi.
Just a man whistling Johnnie Ray's 'Just Walking in the Rain'.
I haven't heard the song in ages…
Karissa strolls through the deli, taking the place at the back of the line. I join her, wordlessly waiting, the sound of the casual whistling clawing at me. Every second that passes makes my knees weaker, my vision hazier, my head a throbbing mass of pain.
I'm sweating.
Aching.
I shove my hands in my pockets.
This was a bad idea.
A fucking terrible idea.
Neither of us talks during the wait. She reads the menu, scanning the dozens of options as we slowly, steadily move closer to the front.
It only takes a few minutes.
Everyone's cleared out ahead of us, only two or three waiting behind us. The guy working the register looks up. He can't be much older than Karissa, and he seems to only have eyes for her. He grins the kind of grin that says he'd like to take her to dinner then have her for dessert afterward, as he says enthusiastically, "what can I do you for?"
I want to reach across the counter and grab him by the throat, rip his fucking voice box out for even talking to her.
In another place, I might.
At another time, I probably would.
I would gut the boy for having the balls to even think about flirting with her.
But in my state, the pesky little punk could probably take me out.
Pathetic.
Karissa returns his smile before glancing my way, expecting me to answer that question. I stare at the guy working, watching his expression change when he takes note of mine, and clear my throat when I turn to Karissa.
I wipe the sweat from my brow. Here goes nothing. "Order whatever you'd like, sweetheart."
The words aren't even entirely from my lips when silence falls over the deli, the meat slicer pausing mid-stroke, the whistling halting in the middle of a note. I can feel the abrupt shift in the air, coldness sweeping through, like the sun vanished behind some thick clouds, blanketing the world in the kind of shadows where men like me live.
I shiver.
I can feel eyes on me. I don't move from where I'm standing, merely shifting my gaze down the counter. Lips that whistled so exuberantly a second ago are now pressed into a thin line of contempt, like the man's forcing them together to keep from saying something.
His back's no longer to me.
I can only imagine what he's thinking. His eyes are harsh and critical, the recognition running deep but none of it is sentimental.
Karissa obliviously starts ordering—an Italian sub special for her—before she addresses me. "Naz, what are you getting?"
"Nothing," I say, staring at the man a moment longer before turning to the guy at the register. "Nothing for me, so just her Italian."
He rings it up and I quickly pay, not waiting for my change. I just slap a twenty down on the counter before turning my back and shuffling away, slipping into the chair at an empty table in the middle of the deli. Karissa joins me, not saying anything, until her sub is ready and it's set in front of her on the table.
Her gaze bounces between the food and me with confusion. "You didn't want anything?"
"No."
"Why not?" she asks, taking a bite of her sub, practically moaning as she chews. "Jesus, it's really good."
I believe her.
The food here always is.
But I can't eat right now and certainly not at this place.
"You know how you think I'm paranoid for believing people might try to poison me?"
"I wouldn't really say you're paranoid," she says, "but yeah..."
"Well if anyone were to ever actually do it, I'd put my money on him."
I motion with my head toward the counter. Her eyes widen, her gaze shifting from me to her food again with a hint of panic. She suddenly looks sick.
"Relax," I say, letting out a light laugh at her strong reaction. "Your food's fine. He wouldn't mess with it."
"How do you know?"
"He has no reason to," I say. "You haven't insulted him."
"And you have?"
"Yes."
"How?"
I stare at her, considering how to answer. "By existing, mostly."
She nods and goes back to eating, as if she understands, when she doesn't. Not really. Not yet, anyway. But she will, just as soon as the man starts unraveling, the shock of my appearance wearing off and undoing his carefully constructed happy-go-lucky, whistle-while-you-work façade.
Most people overlook men like me, or see us as a necessary evil, staying out of our way to keep from crossing our paths, but he's too strong willed, too wound tight with a misguided sense of righteousness, the stick up his ass hitting way too deep for him to just keep his mouth shut and mind his own business.
Coming here was definitely a bad idea.
I know better than to do it.
But Karissa wants to know things… things just telling her won't make her understand. I can shout that the sky is blue all afternoon but until you look at it yourself, you'll never understand what shade. It could be deep royal blue or a faintly tinted white.
And when it comes to this man's feelings toward me, it's as dark as midnight.
Cool.
Confident.
He owns the place.
He whistles loudly as he works, like an oversize dwarf right out of Snow White, the off-key tune the only noise in the place above the chatter. There are no televisions, no music, no Wi-Fi.
Just a man whistling Johnnie Ray's 'Just Walking in the Rain'.
I haven't heard the song in ages…
Karissa strolls through the deli, taking the place at the back of the line. I join her, wordlessly waiting, the sound of the casual whistling clawing at me. Every second that passes makes my knees weaker, my vision hazier, my head a throbbing mass of pain.
I'm sweating.
Aching.
I shove my hands in my pockets.
This was a bad idea.
A fucking terrible idea.
Neither of us talks during the wait. She reads the menu, scanning the dozens of options as we slowly, steadily move closer to the front.
It only takes a few minutes.
Everyone's cleared out ahead of us, only two or three waiting behind us. The guy working the register looks up. He can't be much older than Karissa, and he seems to only have eyes for her. He grins the kind of grin that says he'd like to take her to dinner then have her for dessert afterward, as he says enthusiastically, "what can I do you for?"
I want to reach across the counter and grab him by the throat, rip his fucking voice box out for even talking to her.
In another place, I might.
At another time, I probably would.
I would gut the boy for having the balls to even think about flirting with her.
But in my state, the pesky little punk could probably take me out.
Pathetic.
Karissa returns his smile before glancing my way, expecting me to answer that question. I stare at the guy working, watching his expression change when he takes note of mine, and clear my throat when I turn to Karissa.
I wipe the sweat from my brow. Here goes nothing. "Order whatever you'd like, sweetheart."
The words aren't even entirely from my lips when silence falls over the deli, the meat slicer pausing mid-stroke, the whistling halting in the middle of a note. I can feel the abrupt shift in the air, coldness sweeping through, like the sun vanished behind some thick clouds, blanketing the world in the kind of shadows where men like me live.
I shiver.
I can feel eyes on me. I don't move from where I'm standing, merely shifting my gaze down the counter. Lips that whistled so exuberantly a second ago are now pressed into a thin line of contempt, like the man's forcing them together to keep from saying something.
His back's no longer to me.
I can only imagine what he's thinking. His eyes are harsh and critical, the recognition running deep but none of it is sentimental.
Karissa obliviously starts ordering—an Italian sub special for her—before she addresses me. "Naz, what are you getting?"
"Nothing," I say, staring at the man a moment longer before turning to the guy at the register. "Nothing for me, so just her Italian."
He rings it up and I quickly pay, not waiting for my change. I just slap a twenty down on the counter before turning my back and shuffling away, slipping into the chair at an empty table in the middle of the deli. Karissa joins me, not saying anything, until her sub is ready and it's set in front of her on the table.
Her gaze bounces between the food and me with confusion. "You didn't want anything?"
"No."
"Why not?" she asks, taking a bite of her sub, practically moaning as she chews. "Jesus, it's really good."
I believe her.
The food here always is.
But I can't eat right now and certainly not at this place.
"You know how you think I'm paranoid for believing people might try to poison me?"
"I wouldn't really say you're paranoid," she says, "but yeah..."
"Well if anyone were to ever actually do it, I'd put my money on him."
I motion with my head toward the counter. Her eyes widen, her gaze shifting from me to her food again with a hint of panic. She suddenly looks sick.
"Relax," I say, letting out a light laugh at her strong reaction. "Your food's fine. He wouldn't mess with it."
"How do you know?"
"He has no reason to," I say. "You haven't insulted him."
"And you have?"
"Yes."
"How?"
I stare at her, considering how to answer. "By existing, mostly."
She nods and goes back to eating, as if she understands, when she doesn't. Not really. Not yet, anyway. But she will, just as soon as the man starts unraveling, the shock of my appearance wearing off and undoing his carefully constructed happy-go-lucky, whistle-while-you-work façade.
Most people overlook men like me, or see us as a necessary evil, staying out of our way to keep from crossing our paths, but he's too strong willed, too wound tight with a misguided sense of righteousness, the stick up his ass hitting way too deep for him to just keep his mouth shut and mind his own business.
Coming here was definitely a bad idea.
I know better than to do it.
But Karissa wants to know things… things just telling her won't make her understand. I can shout that the sky is blue all afternoon but until you look at it yourself, you'll never understand what shade. It could be deep royal blue or a faintly tinted white.
And when it comes to this man's feelings toward me, it's as dark as midnight.
