Page 12 of Error Handling
Maybe he’s waiting for them to cool. Maybe he ate a Snickers bar before meeting up with me. Maybe he’s nervous too. Maybe he’s celiac. The possibilities are endless.
Wheat and I are friends, besties even, so I bite into the roll with relief. My stomach swells with gratitude when the bread reaches it.
Chewing gives me time to think about what I might say, how I might entertain the person sitting next to me. Why do I always feel it’s my duty to entertain others? (File that away for future analysis) Why isn’t he talking?
“These are delicious,” I say finally. “Are you going to eat one?”
“I’m celiac.”
Ah-ha!
“I’m sorry,” I say. I really am. A life without yeast rolls? I can’t imagine.
“No, I’m used to it. I don’t even like the smell of bread. It makes my stomach hurt.”
“Oh, no. I don’t have to eat them in front of you.” I’ll still eat them, but I can eat them next to the palm tree that’s ten meters away, downstream of the wind. I’m that hungry.
“Don’t worry about it. I’m used to watching people eat.”
“It’s a bit rude, isn’t it? Me sitting and eating in front of you?”
He waves away my comment. “It’s nice that you care.”
“I tell you what.” I grab the basket and head over to the tree, stuffing another roll into my mouth as I go. Once there, I lean against the trunk and chew.
Chris laughs. “You don’t have to do that.”
I point to my full cheeks and nod, then flash him my pointer finger to communicate:One minute, I can’t talk because I just jammed your poison into my face.
The fluffy roll quickly compacts and dissolves under the friction of my gnashing molars. I swallow, dump the remaining two rolls in the metal trash barrel a few meters from the tree, and then sit down next to Chris again.
“I’m sorry, I was just so hungry. It’s been a long and somewhat odd day. The Ritz Bits I ate at five-thirty didn’t last long.”
He looks at me and smiles without teeth. Only the right side of his mouth curves up, so it’s really a half-smile. “I practice intermittent fasting,” he says, “so I’m used to it. I only eat within an eight-hour window. I had some Italian sausage before I left.”
I laugh. He doesn’t join in. “Sorry. I just pictured you standing in your kitchen gnawing on a big sausage.”
The right corner of his mouth lifts again. The left remains stationary. “That’s pretty much how it went. I’ve been told I’m low maintenance.”
“Huh,” I say. “I guess I am too. Or—I don’t know. You’d have to ask my friends.”
The more I speak, the more I risk saying something annoying, but if Chris remains a man of few words, I’ll have no choice butto fill the void. I just hope my cheeks don’t go numb. I’m not sure how much social mojo I have left.
“I went to a wedding on the top of the Seafarer.” I nod at the sleek yacht following the shoreline.
“Really? How was it?”
“Gorgeous.”
“It looks like there’s a wedding going on now.”
From our spot on the bench, I can make out the figure of a white-adorned bride in the generous lights along the boat’s upper deck. “Yep.” I nod. “They have the ceremony up top, and then everyone goes downstairs for hors d’oeuvres and drinks while the staff sets up tables and lays the dance floor. That’s what they did in the spring, anyway. Some of the guests were already drunk by the time we headed back up. I was ready to go home.”
“You didn’t drink?” Chris leans over and rests his elbow on his knee. He angles his body toward me, resting his temple against his relaxed fist. How does he make such a simple pose so...interesting? He’s lost the nervous curl-tuck of earlier and seems to be comfortably sinking into our conversation.
I shake my head. “I don’t usually. I tried some wine. Enough to remind me why I don’t make a habit of drinking it. If I want something with a kick, I drink kombucha.”
Chris laughs. “Living dangerously, I see.”