Free The Fortunes of Indigo Skye by Deb Caletti Page A
Authors: Deb Caletti
me to wear heels, I'd pull
those little hairs on his arm," I say.
"Men should leave fashion to the ladies," Joe
says.
"I didn't mind the heels," Trina says. "Roger
had a great eye."
"Yeah, which he's using on chicks in thong
bikinis in Rio," I remind. I can tell she needs some emotional rescue ASAP. She
is in that post-breakup phase of wild swings--where the ex goes from being the
saintly love of your life to the darkest wedge of evil within twenty
seconds.
Trina nibbles the bit of piecrust on her fork.
I can practically see her mind ditch Roger's halo and remember all the times he
checked out other women when he thought she didn't notice. "I guess it's a bad
sign if you like everything about someone except their personality," she
says.
63
The bells on the door jangle and I shoot my
eyes over in a flash, because it's about Vespa guy time. He'd been coming in
every day, and we still hadn't gone beyond the smiles and thank-you's and the
occasional Have a nice days, Okay, you toos. But it's not Vespa guy, it's
a man and a woman who must work at the salmon hatchery, judging by their
T-shirts. I'm guessing not too many people wear matching salmon life-cycle
shirts for amusement or glamour. I slide them a pair of plastic-covered menus,
get another for the man who runs the used bookstore who comes in every now and
then. It starts getting busy. Two ladies in business suits and with briefcases
sit down and we're rockin' and rollin', and I'm taking the hatchery people's
orders--one fruit plate, one French toast--and trying not to stare at the salmon
spawning over the little pile of eggs right on the guy's left pec.
I start getting worried about the Vespa guy,
but right about the time I give the bookstore man his Farm Scramble (eggs with
ham and onions--I've tried to tell Jane the name of it sucks), Nick Harrison
gestures my way and nods his chin out the window. Vespa, stage right. Maybe it's
pathetic, but none of us has lost our fascination with him. Trina sits up
straighter, though she's given up trying to get his attention. The fact that he
hasn't responded to Trina the way everyone responds to Trina only adds to his
mystery. He couldn't be moved by flesh packed into spandex, which tells you a
lot about a person. Our theories so far: he is depressed, shy, a lonely
newcomer, sexually confused, divorcing, evading the law, in over his head with
cocaine addiction. But no one has gotten up the nerve to just get to know him
and find out. As his waitress, I'd had the most natural opportunity, but I just
couldn't seem to get myself to do it. There was just something unapproachable
about him. He was a store you wouldn't go into, or if
64
you did go, he was the things you didn't dare
touch hanging on the rack, the glass case you wouldn't even lean
against.
He sits at Nero Belgio, as usual.
Caramel-colored corduroy pants and a buttery yellow shirt and a creamy suede
jacket. It's not the thin, fuzz-gathering type of corduroy either, but the lush,
velvety sort. We do our routine. He smiles, I smile. I hand him a menu and he
says, "Just coffee, please."
"Are you sure I can't talk you into anything
else? French toast? Farm Scramble?" It's the most I've ever said to him, and I'm
pissed at myself that it's Farm Scramble that comes to mind. It's slightly
embarrassing to say Farm Scramble to someone so well dressed.
"No, no thank you," he says.
I bring the man his coffee cup, pour in a
steaming stream. He smiles his gratitude. Tink-tinks his spoon against
the sides of the cup, stirring. He stares out the window. It's practically
infuriating how little we know about him. I can feel this little burble of
frustration percolating, a feeling I have to ditch because the French toast is
up.
I clear Joe's plate, bring the bookstore guy a
bottle of ketchup for his eggs, which is just disgusting in my opinion--an egg
crime scene--but never mind. Nick asks for a second orange juice. The Vespa guy
those little hairs on his arm," I say.
"Men should leave fashion to the ladies," Joe
says.
"I didn't mind the heels," Trina says. "Roger
had a great eye."
"Yeah, which he's using on chicks in thong
bikinis in Rio," I remind. I can tell she needs some emotional rescue ASAP. She
is in that post-breakup phase of wild swings--where the ex goes from being the
saintly love of your life to the darkest wedge of evil within twenty
seconds.
Trina nibbles the bit of piecrust on her fork.
I can practically see her mind ditch Roger's halo and remember all the times he
checked out other women when he thought she didn't notice. "I guess it's a bad
sign if you like everything about someone except their personality," she
says.
63
The bells on the door jangle and I shoot my
eyes over in a flash, because it's about Vespa guy time. He'd been coming in
every day, and we still hadn't gone beyond the smiles and thank-you's and the
occasional Have a nice days, Okay, you toos. But it's not Vespa guy, it's
a man and a woman who must work at the salmon hatchery, judging by their
T-shirts. I'm guessing not too many people wear matching salmon life-cycle
shirts for amusement or glamour. I slide them a pair of plastic-covered menus,
get another for the man who runs the used bookstore who comes in every now and
then. It starts getting busy. Two ladies in business suits and with briefcases
sit down and we're rockin' and rollin', and I'm taking the hatchery people's
orders--one fruit plate, one French toast--and trying not to stare at the salmon
spawning over the little pile of eggs right on the guy's left pec.
I start getting worried about the Vespa guy,
but right about the time I give the bookstore man his Farm Scramble (eggs with
ham and onions--I've tried to tell Jane the name of it sucks), Nick Harrison
gestures my way and nods his chin out the window. Vespa, stage right. Maybe it's
pathetic, but none of us has lost our fascination with him. Trina sits up
straighter, though she's given up trying to get his attention. The fact that he
hasn't responded to Trina the way everyone responds to Trina only adds to his
mystery. He couldn't be moved by flesh packed into spandex, which tells you a
lot about a person. Our theories so far: he is depressed, shy, a lonely
newcomer, sexually confused, divorcing, evading the law, in over his head with
cocaine addiction. But no one has gotten up the nerve to just get to know him
and find out. As his waitress, I'd had the most natural opportunity, but I just
couldn't seem to get myself to do it. There was just something unapproachable
about him. He was a store you wouldn't go into, or if
64
you did go, he was the things you didn't dare
touch hanging on the rack, the glass case you wouldn't even lean
against.
He sits at Nero Belgio, as usual.
Caramel-colored corduroy pants and a buttery yellow shirt and a creamy suede
jacket. It's not the thin, fuzz-gathering type of corduroy either, but the lush,
velvety sort. We do our routine. He smiles, I smile. I hand him a menu and he
says, "Just coffee, please."
"Are you sure I can't talk you into anything
else? French toast? Farm Scramble?" It's the most I've ever said to him, and I'm
pissed at myself that it's Farm Scramble that comes to mind. It's slightly
embarrassing to say Farm Scramble to someone so well dressed.
"No, no thank you," he says.
I bring the man his coffee cup, pour in a
steaming stream. He smiles his gratitude. Tink-tinks his spoon against
the sides of the cup, stirring. He stares out the window. It's practically
infuriating how little we know about him. I can feel this little burble of
frustration percolating, a feeling I have to ditch because the French toast is
up.
I clear Joe's plate, bring the bookstore guy a
bottle of ketchup for his eggs, which is just disgusting in my opinion--an egg
crime scene--but never mind. Nick asks for a second orange juice. The Vespa guy