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kiss!” Donny called out from the kitchen side. We girls tended to think of that zone behind the bar as private space, because it was away from the dining customers, but the sound funneled right into the kitchen.
    I shook my head at Courtney. “You totally say those double entendre things for his benefit, don't you?”
    Courtney winked and did her crooked smile. “He's married with kids, so we're all he's got. It's practically charity.”
    Someone whistled for service, so we broke away from our window grouping and went back to work.
    At the end of my shift, after the other serving staff came in to relieve us, Courtney and I sat in the back by the tiny window facing the alley and counted up our tips. The weather was nice, so we had the window cracked open for fresh air.
    “Did you steal some of my money?” I asked Courtney. “Like for a joke? I have almost no tips. I made way less than usual.”
    “Tough break,” she said. “Need a loan? No interest.”
    “I don't understand. I was so nice to people, all day. Like, SO nice. I listened, and I didn't tell people what eggs they wanted, or make fun of their hats, and there were some seriously weird hats today. Did you see the guy who looked like a sailor? I totally let that go.”
    “Let me think,” Courtney said, tugging at her thick row of false eyelashes and then smoothing them out. I'd worn falsies once before, and they're not comfortable, so I could only imagine how vain you had to be to wear them every day. But … if they made Courtney happy, who was I to interfere?
    “You were too nice,” Courtney said. “You were ingratiating , which doesn't fly, and doesn't get you tips. You have to act like you hate them, so they buy your approval.”
    “The world shouldn't work like that.”
    She patted me on the knee. “Your youthful idealism is totes adorbs . The real world will crush that out of you soon enough. Now what are you going to wear to this art show date?”
    “It's not a date and I'm not going.”
    “You like Crossword Guy. What's his name again?”
    “I forget,” I lied. His name was Marc, with a C at the end instead of a K, and I desperately wanted to google it and see if that meant he was French or what.
    “You'll go. You like him,” she said.
    “I don't like him. I never liked him.”
    Courtney went back to counting her money, setting aside the portion for the kitchen staff.
    I peeked again at the postcard and tried to push the idea out of my mind. I didn't really like him. I'd simply been thrown off by the sudden, unexpected friendliness. My head was light that day, and it was making me act like an airhead.
    I didn't really like him.
    Now, you're probably wondering what type of idiot I am for disliking an attractive, nice-smelling man who gave me my only generous tip of the day, plus invited me to an art opening. Contrary to how it may appear, I'm not one of those girls who can't tell when a good guy likes her. I don't hate myself like that.
    The thing is, up until that particular Monday, Crossword Guy—Marc—had never been anything but rude to me. Because he didn't like me.
    He even used the crossword puzzles to antagonize me, I swear. When I came by, he'd give me a clue, like, “Seven letter word for a ditzy girl. Starts with A.”
    “Airhead,” I'd say, because who can resist solving an easy puzzle?
    “I knew you would know that one,” he'd say smugly.
    “Yeah? Well, if your face were the clue, it would be a completely different word starting with A.”
    He'd tap his coffee cup. “Why, yes, I would like a top-up.”
    Most of our interactions went pretty much like that. “Four-letter word for grouchy waitress,” or “Eight-letter word for lemon cat … I'm thinking sourpuss, what do you say about that?”
    I didn't think he was teasing me in that oh-he's-doing-it-because-he-likes-you, schoolyard way, which—incidentally—is utter bullshit. No, he really didn't care for my particular flavor of personal expression, and