Free Plus One by Christopher Noxon Page A

pink and succulent, the salmon fillets jewel-toned. Handwritten tags identified the farm, feeding, and preparation of each cut, along with the price, which Alex calculated as roughly 120 percent higher than anything he’d ever paid at his regular Armenian grocery.
    â€œHuck! Homey!” came the call from Malcolm, bushy eyebrows darting in their direction. “How’d it go with the kalbi?”
    â€œAmazing.” Huck pressed down on the gleaming glass case. “I did it with that rice wine marinade, like you said. Best ever.”
    Malcolm seemed to know everything Huck had ever purchased here, referencing scallops and sausages like they were children dropped off in daycare. Alex hung back a few steps as the two traded firm and irrefutable opinions on spice rubs and wood chips.
    Over Malcolm’s shoulder, Alex caught sight of a young woman in chef’s whites. She ducked behind the display case and slid a tray of hanger steaks through the sliding cabinet door. He watched her face through droplets of condensation. Pointy chin, blond eyelashes, red bandana knotted above her forehead, wheaty hair tied back in a complicated knot, a finely crosshatched tattoo of a cleaver on her forearm. There was something extra-terrestrial about her, something extreme-Nordic. Alex got a sudden picture of her on a rocky plain, in a knit sweater with a wolfhound at her side, the wind in her face and a dagger strapped to her thigh.
    Alex took a step forward and tapped the glass, hoping to get her attention. She looked up and registered his interest, then motionedto Malcolm. “ He can help you,” she said.
    She ducked toward the walk-in freezer, the bow of her apron strings dangling over a ridiculously high twentysomething rump. As he watched her recede into the chilly dark, he was suddenly aware of what she saw when she looked back at him. It registered in a flash: rumpled shirt, clumpy hair, baggy khakis. Not old, but not young. A cross between Bob Saget and a dollop of sour cream. Unthreatening, uninteresting, uncool, entirely un .
    Outside, carrying a black cellophane bag heavy with $75 worth of rib-eye, Alex agreed that Malcolm’s was indeed amazing. Then he asked about the woman stocking the case.
    â€œThat’s Miranda,” Huck said. “She’s got some kind of Tumblr feed or blog? Meatchick or Meatgirl, some shit like that. Why?”
    â€œI just don’t think I’ve ever seen a lady butcher.” Alex lowered himself into Huck’s Audi and watched as Huck deposited their purchases into an icebox built into the dash. As he popped on his sunglasses and started up the car, Alex looked him over. Huck was about Alex’s age, maybe a few years younger, but next to him, Huck seemed like a college kid.
    â€œCan I ask you something lame? Where do you get your—clothes? For instance, those trousers ?”
    Huck laughed. “Why? You wanna do something about the daddy pants?”
    â€œKinda, yeah.”
    â€œHold on.” Huck pulled a quick U-turn, gunned the accelerator, and drove to a tiny sign-less storefront on 3rd Street with blacked-out windows. It could’ve been an auto showroom if not for the booming funk on the sound system and the steel racks of menswear. Alex wandered around, checking the tags on the sleeves of button-snap shirts and velour V-necks. Huck chatted up the shop assistant, a drowsy-eyed girl with tousled red hair. She sized Alex up, summed up what he needed—“French denim, stovepipe cut, distressed not wrecked”—and flashed Alex a widesmile. He knew she was only being pleasant because she knew Huck. But niceness by proxy was still nice. Alex lapped it up.
    In the dressing room Alex discovered he’d been given a size twenty-eight. Not a chance. He passed the pants over the door. “How about a thirty-four?”
    â€œJust put on the pants,” Huck said. “It’s how they’re made.”
    Alex pulled the pair