Free Snack by Emme Burton

I expected.
    Snack pulls away and, without warning, throws his head back and howls, “Woo-hoo!” He grabs my hand and pulls us through the door of the journalism room and into the hall. To everyone leaving the dance, to nobody at all, to the universe, he yells out, “My girl! Minnie Cooper is my girl!”

Chapter 8: 2014 – The Loft
    Snack takes my hand and entwines our fingers again. He starts to walk toward the stairs at the back of the café with me in tow. The stairs lead to the office upstairs. Wookiee lets out a sharp bark from the floor as his tiny legs attempt to keep up. Snack scoops him up and brings him to his chest. Wookiee cuddles into Snack and yawns.
    “See, even Wookiee is tired… Let’s sleep.”
    I don’t even attempt to argue. I’m exhausted.
    As we climb the stairs I ask, “How are we going to sleep up here in your dad’s office?”
    Snack grumbles something unintelligible. If I didn’t already know he wasn’t a curser, I would’ve sworn he said, “Fucker.” Snack leans against the back wall at the top of the stairs. “It was”—Snack turns back to continue ascending—“until he cheated on my mom and they divorced.”
    I know this is not a pleasant topic for Snack. After years of marriage, Snack’s dad, Robert, had an affair and ran off with one of the vendors for the café—a woman in her twenties. Younger than Snack at the time. The worst part, in my opinion? She looked just like Colette only a newer model. I don’t know every detail of the story, but who would leave a woman like Colette? It’s like movie stars that fuck around on their gorgeous, talented spouses. To the outsider, it’s illogical and greedy and fucking mean.
    Snack flips a light switch at the top of the stairs, and I’m surprised at what I see or don’t see. Gone is Snack’s dad’s cramped paper strewn office with its beat-up couch and old gray office desk. Gone are the stacks of paper goods and ceramic mugs. It’s all been replaced and remodeled into a gorgeous, expansive loft apartment. If I were guessing, I’d say it mimics the footprint of the café downstairs, which is not tiny, for square footage.
    “My mom was going to move in here. She said after my dad was gone and I was married and rarely home, the house felt too large and ridiculous.”
    “This is amazing!” I spin in place to appreciate every detail: the solid wood wainscoting, the multihued wall finish, the subtle lighting. Each aspect has been thoughtfully planned.
    The ceiling is high and vaulted. It’s one large space. A large open kitchen with warm cherry cabinets, stainless steel appliances, and black granite counters is a chef’s dream. The large kitchen island merges into the open living space, which has a big inviting chestnut leather couch, a couple of chairs, and a coffee/ottoman thing—I never know what to call that particular piece of furniture. A floor to ceiling window takes up the front of the loft. The streetlights from below illuminate the falling snow outside. Some of it sticks to the top part of the window.
    I just walk around in awe. “Wow! Snack this is so great”
    There’s a screened off area to the right. I peek around the screen and view a king-size bed. I immediately wish I could climb in and crash.
    “That’s the bedroom.” Snack lifts an eyebrow and gestures with a Vanna White worthy flourish.
    “Really?” I ask with equal sarcasm. “Thanks for elaborating, that would’ve escaped me.”
    Snack laughs, nuzzling Wookiee. “Nothing gets by her, huh, Wookiee? Smart cookie, that one.”
    Snack points out the large bathroom adjacent to the bedroom space and the walk-in closet.
    I’d picked up a stray newspaper from the café on the way up. Wookiee hasn’t gone potty since we got on the train, but I know he won’t step foot out in this snowstorm. I explain the situation to Snack as I pop into the attached bathroom and lay a thick layer of paper in a corner.
    I point to the newspaper as I walk out of the