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ordinary T-shirt. No neon badge, no
apron, no nothing.
    “ Charlee, it’s
on the house,” he says, smiling when he says my name, and pressing
his hand on mine to stop my fingers scrambling through my
bag.
    “ Sorry?”
    “ Your
disgusting milkshake. It’s on this crazy place because I’d never
make a pretty girl like you pay for something she didn’t
drink.”
    My cheeks burn up. He has
caught me off guard and I seem to have forgotten what “on the
house” is. I need to rest. I need to cry for hours and then pass
out under my warm flannelette bed sheets.
    “ It wasn’t
disgusting!” I say, rushing. “It was nice.”
    He glances between the drink
and back to my eyes and shakes his head. “I do believe the glass is
still full. You can’t have had any.”
    Sure enough it is. There’s this
line near the rim inside the tall glass and the liquid is just
above it. I’m so caught.
    “ How about I
take you out for a better one now my shift has
finished?”
    My first thought is to pull my
clothing up over my head and run out of here, hoping I don’t crash,
but then I get an idea. I’m not the type of girl to two-time guys
so spending alone time with this guy has to kill my unnatural
interest in Dexter. Right?
    I oblige his offer, saying the
drink is unnecessary but I’d like to hang outside. We sit on the
edge of the outdoor seats. A train of advertised signs serve as the
barrier between the seated area and the road. It’s a quiet
afternoon with clumps of families and couples and friends walking
by us. Everything’s much more normal out here.
    Except I answer on average with
two words to everything this guy says, masked by the fact I feel
silly asking for his name again.
    “ I’m sorry I’m
such horrible company,” he mumbles at one point. “My old man did
always tell me I’m terrible at impressing the pretty girls and
you’ve just proved him right.”
    This is when I burst into
tears. He leads me away from the curious customers and we walk
around the corner to where a bus stop with a public seat hangs by
the curb. Even I surprise myself. I sob into this strange guy’s
T-shirt. I’ve completely wet the logo on his chest. But he holds me
in a hug, enveloping me in his arms. Sometime around this point I
start to pull away.
    “ I really
don’t…” I look for a tissue and find nothing around us so just
settle for sniffling, and continue, “this is really embarrassing.
I’m—I’m sorry…”
    “ Elliot,” he
says for me this
time. Suddenly I’m half-crying, half-spluttering and the air is
easier to breathe and my chest and throat feel lighter.
    “ The first
date I go on in longer than I can remember and the girl bursts into
tears and doesn’t remember my name.”
    I laugh again, and I can’t stop
laughing with this guy. Maybe I have lost my mind. “I’ll try not to
soak your T-shirt with my tears again. And I promise to remember
your name…Elliot,” I say, teasing. “But I do need to go.”
    That I “need to go” is
something that comes to mind as the words come out of my mouth.
Yes, I need to go see Dad. If I’m in this mood, then now is exactly
the right time because every other time is a struggle to convince
myself to walk through that hospital. The smell. The slouched
people from sixteen to sixty-six in wheelchairs. The distraught
loved ones. Their pain is my pain.
    “ See? I was
right. I’m a dud.”
    Quickly, I kiss him on the
cheek. His mouth is sort of hanging open when I pull back. I walk
away with my feet weighing the same as they once did before, with
my stomach calm, and my mind rational. I’m bummed I haven’t fallen
head-over-heels for this guy or walked away as if I were floating
or ecstatic, but maybe that stuff only happen in movies. This is
the real world, after all.
    I sling my bag handles over my
shoulder and walk away.
    “… your
number?” I hear him call, but I only answer with a wave.
     
    * * *
     
    Dad’s skin is still yellow.
There’s another machine by