Girl in Pieces

The next time, the man on the couch isn’t so talkative. This time, the red-and-yellow-haired woman lingers a little longer as I gather the sack and stuff it into my pocket and as I leave, she says, “You tell Riley Wendy says hey. You tell Riley, Wendy sure does miss him.” That makes me wince. Were they together once? I try not to think about that.

At the café, I hand him the bag, watch as he rushes to the bathroom. Tanner is paging through a book of glossy, odd-looking photographs. He lifts it up for me to see. “Eye out of orbit,” he says. “I’m gonna be an EMT.”

The photograph shows the profile of a stunned-looking man, his eyeball sprung from the socket, connected by a cartoonish zigzag of artery. It’s gross and I make a face. “Shit happens,” Tanner murmurs. “The human body is a wonderful thing in all its fucked-upness.”

Linus walks through the double doors, wiping her hands on her apron. She gags at the photo and Tanner laughs. I look up, catch her smiling at me, but I look back down at the white plates, the squares of wheat bread and hot cheese that I’m flipping while Riley’s in the bathroom.

Linus says, “It’s okay to talk to us, you know. We don’t bite.”

Tanner says, “Sometimes I do,” and they laugh, but not at me, I can tell, so I kind of laugh, too. I’m getting better at being around them, talking a little more.

Riley returns. I can tell he’s deliberately avoiding looking at Linus because he gets busy right away with prep work.

His skin gives off the cold scent of water. The color’s returned to his cheeks, his eyes are liquid light. Whistling, he slips the spatula from my fingers and quick, quick, he flips the hills of hash browns, preps a plate, oils a dry spot on the grill. He’s quiet until Linus and Tanner have walked to the front to check the coffee urns. When they do, he leans down, his breath warm on my cheek, and whispers, “You’re a real good girl.”