Status: back in action
Town Limits
Saturated
Paige’s mom gives me a job at her cafe. She tells me it’s because she likes my character but I know the real reason is because my mother is dead and my father is in prison. Either way, I stand in a powder blue painted shoebox for six hours of my day, sweeping the floors and tending to customers.
My right hand is wrapped tightly with cushiony gauze that weaves around my palm and up my wrist. Sometimes brave and curious customers will ask me what happened and then smile with relief when I tell them that the cut is on my hand and I got it while picking up glass from a vase I had dropped.
I quickly learn that Darla’s is a place where gossip circulates like wildfire. Women wearing ironed pencil skirts and sock buns push through the door chattering about the Chadwick house and the Chadwick girl. And when I saunter to the dainty, white iron tables they sit at, offering them a refill, I make a game out of convincing them that my leer is actually a joyous smile.
It sucks but the tips are good and it’s six hours a day when I’m not in the bungalow where broken objects litter the floor and the spirits of broken people linger in the air.
One day a slim, middle-aged blonde woman wanders in with a canvas bag slung across her body and a book tucked beneath her arm. Her other hand is intertwined with that of a little boy’s, who smiles and always ask her if he can get a cookie with his soup. These people are new to town, I think, because they don’t stare at me with interest and they still have to gaze at the menu board before they order.
“Which soup would you recommend?” The woman questions me from across the counter as I fool around with the register. Her voice oozes kindness and warmth and everything you’d expect a mom’s voice to encompass. It is nothing like my mother’s yet it is everything like my mother’s and it causes my heart to stop beating for a moment.
After exhaling, I gaze down at the round-faced boy and smile, “The cream of broccoli is soup-er.” And after agreeing to order three of those, two in bread bowls and one not, the boy’s giggle follow him and his mother all the way to their table in the corner near the window.
My back is facing the door when the bell above it jingles, announcing a new customer. I’m ladling soup into bowls, listening to the sound of a scraping chair and the exchange of hellos. With a tray propped against my shoulder, I turn and see Liam sitting with the woman and the child, a faint smile gracing his face and his mother rolling her eyes and the boy still giggling maniacally.
For the second time in one day my heart stops beating.
“Enjoy,” I breath as I slide the soups onto their table. Liam’s green eyes are burning a hole in my cheek and it’s so much worse to be looked at by him in the light than it is in the dark. Without another word I stride to through the swinging door that leads to the back room, gladly taking over Paige’s position as dish cleaner.
***
My shift ends an hour later and when I sweep through the doorway of the back room, I find Liam atop one of the cushioned stool at the counter. A white mug is cupped in one hand and it lingers near his lips as he listens to Paige, who chirps on about some town event as she wipes down the counter.
I don’t acknowledge him but he notices me anyways, saying a quick goodbye to Paige and hopping off his seat. The fabric of his jacket scratches against itself as he catches up, falling easily into step beside me as I walk toward the house, head down and hands clenched into fists deep in my pockets.
“Your family seems nice,” I state blankly. And I’m frustrated and angry with myself because I have no right to be bitter because other people have families but at the same time it’s so unfair. It’s the wrong thing to say if you want someone to keep walking beside you.
Liam halts and I keep going, surging forward beneath the rain. “Nora, stop.” He calls but I don’t. And then his feet are slapping against the accumulating puddles and he’s reaching forward from behind me and his large hand is gripping my arm.
That makes me stop.
It’s like the vases all over again. Before I can think, I’m ripping my wrist from his grasp, turning on my heel and heaving against his lean chest. “Don’t touch me.”
And then that one word begins repeating itself in my head again and my eyes widen with the realization of my actions. I cup my hand over my mouth in shock. His eyes widen, too, and they’re so green. Like vines that tangle around your legs and keep you planted to the ground. “I’m so sorry,” He exhales, ripping a hand through his golden hair and glancing around at our surroundings. Maybe he’s desperate for an escape route.
“No,” I say, “No, that was my fault. It was just reflexive and I shouldn’t have...”
I turn and bolt away again. Only this time, he does follow me. And he’s fast. The boy jogs past me and doubles back, cutting me off and forcing me to stop with just his presence and not his touch.
“I should’ve known not to do that, with your dad and everything,” He says.
So I did tell him.
My heart pounds and I refuse to look at him so I watch as raindrops plummet onto my shoes. Sighing, I tug the elastic out of my hair, letting it spill over my shoulder. Are we going to continue playing this game of cat and mouse? Of me running away because I’m scared and him following because he’s scared for me?
“What do you want, Liam?”
He glances down at my hand. “You shouldn’t be alone right now.”
Omission is more acceptable than lying, so I repeat what I’ve said to everyone else. “It’s from a piece of glass,” I state it dryly, like I’m annoyed and not split open by his words.
“Then you don’t have to be alone right now. Come with me.” His thin lips tug slightly upward, his pale eyebrows raise a notch. And because it’s only four thirty in the afternoon and the bungalow is three and a half blocks away and I seemingly have nothing left to lose, I do.
My right hand is wrapped tightly with cushiony gauze that weaves around my palm and up my wrist. Sometimes brave and curious customers will ask me what happened and then smile with relief when I tell them that the cut is on my hand and I got it while picking up glass from a vase I had dropped.
I quickly learn that Darla’s is a place where gossip circulates like wildfire. Women wearing ironed pencil skirts and sock buns push through the door chattering about the Chadwick house and the Chadwick girl. And when I saunter to the dainty, white iron tables they sit at, offering them a refill, I make a game out of convincing them that my leer is actually a joyous smile.
It sucks but the tips are good and it’s six hours a day when I’m not in the bungalow where broken objects litter the floor and the spirits of broken people linger in the air.
One day a slim, middle-aged blonde woman wanders in with a canvas bag slung across her body and a book tucked beneath her arm. Her other hand is intertwined with that of a little boy’s, who smiles and always ask her if he can get a cookie with his soup. These people are new to town, I think, because they don’t stare at me with interest and they still have to gaze at the menu board before they order.
“Which soup would you recommend?” The woman questions me from across the counter as I fool around with the register. Her voice oozes kindness and warmth and everything you’d expect a mom’s voice to encompass. It is nothing like my mother’s yet it is everything like my mother’s and it causes my heart to stop beating for a moment.
After exhaling, I gaze down at the round-faced boy and smile, “The cream of broccoli is soup-er.” And after agreeing to order three of those, two in bread bowls and one not, the boy’s giggle follow him and his mother all the way to their table in the corner near the window.
My back is facing the door when the bell above it jingles, announcing a new customer. I’m ladling soup into bowls, listening to the sound of a scraping chair and the exchange of hellos. With a tray propped against my shoulder, I turn and see Liam sitting with the woman and the child, a faint smile gracing his face and his mother rolling her eyes and the boy still giggling maniacally.
For the second time in one day my heart stops beating.
“Enjoy,” I breath as I slide the soups onto their table. Liam’s green eyes are burning a hole in my cheek and it’s so much worse to be looked at by him in the light than it is in the dark. Without another word I stride to through the swinging door that leads to the back room, gladly taking over Paige’s position as dish cleaner.
***
My shift ends an hour later and when I sweep through the doorway of the back room, I find Liam atop one of the cushioned stool at the counter. A white mug is cupped in one hand and it lingers near his lips as he listens to Paige, who chirps on about some town event as she wipes down the counter.
I don’t acknowledge him but he notices me anyways, saying a quick goodbye to Paige and hopping off his seat. The fabric of his jacket scratches against itself as he catches up, falling easily into step beside me as I walk toward the house, head down and hands clenched into fists deep in my pockets.
“Your family seems nice,” I state blankly. And I’m frustrated and angry with myself because I have no right to be bitter because other people have families but at the same time it’s so unfair. It’s the wrong thing to say if you want someone to keep walking beside you.
Liam halts and I keep going, surging forward beneath the rain. “Nora, stop.” He calls but I don’t. And then his feet are slapping against the accumulating puddles and he’s reaching forward from behind me and his large hand is gripping my arm.
That makes me stop.
It’s like the vases all over again. Before I can think, I’m ripping my wrist from his grasp, turning on my heel and heaving against his lean chest. “Don’t touch me.”
And then that one word begins repeating itself in my head again and my eyes widen with the realization of my actions. I cup my hand over my mouth in shock. His eyes widen, too, and they’re so green. Like vines that tangle around your legs and keep you planted to the ground. “I’m so sorry,” He exhales, ripping a hand through his golden hair and glancing around at our surroundings. Maybe he’s desperate for an escape route.
“No,” I say, “No, that was my fault. It was just reflexive and I shouldn’t have...”
I turn and bolt away again. Only this time, he does follow me. And he’s fast. The boy jogs past me and doubles back, cutting me off and forcing me to stop with just his presence and not his touch.
“I should’ve known not to do that, with your dad and everything,” He says.
So I did tell him.
My heart pounds and I refuse to look at him so I watch as raindrops plummet onto my shoes. Sighing, I tug the elastic out of my hair, letting it spill over my shoulder. Are we going to continue playing this game of cat and mouse? Of me running away because I’m scared and him following because he’s scared for me?
“What do you want, Liam?”
He glances down at my hand. “You shouldn’t be alone right now.”
Omission is more acceptable than lying, so I repeat what I’ve said to everyone else. “It’s from a piece of glass,” I state it dryly, like I’m annoyed and not split open by his words.
“Then you don’t have to be alone right now. Come with me.” His thin lips tug slightly upward, his pale eyebrows raise a notch. And because it’s only four thirty in the afternoon and the bungalow is three and a half blocks away and I seemingly have nothing left to lose, I do.