Page 94 of Error Handling
“I didn’t think any PEZ dispensers had feet.”
“They do. See?” I point to a new dispenser with a flat plastic base that allows it to stand on its own.
“Hmm.”
“Yeah. These are all too expensive,” I say, disappointment in my voice. I quickly scan the rest of the booth, which consists entirely of vintage toys. My eyes rest on some newer PEZ in the corner. “No way.”
Chris stands. His eyes travel along my sightline and pause on the opposite wall.
I run over and grab the item that caught my attention. “A Handy Manny set still in the original package!” I bound back to Chris. “It’s perfect.”
Chris turns the box over in my hand and looks at the price tag.
“It’s only twelve dollars,” I say.
He meets my eyes. His are edged with amusement. “We went from a three-thousand-dollar credenza to a twelve-dollar toy.”
“I have diverse tastes. And this is four toys. A Handy Manny, a saw, a hammer, and I think that’s supposed to be a screwdriver.”
“It looks like a block of plastic.”
“It is. You could leave them in the box, or you could mount them in a shadow box, that way you wouldn’t have to look at the Disney logo.”
He grabs the box and examines it. “You want me to decorate my apartment with PEZ?”
“Believe me, if I paired it with modern flourishes, it would look amazing. But I don’t know if I can afford a plane ticket to Puerto Rico to decorate your apartment there. I mean, maybe I could. I could find a way.” I eye him carefully to judge the impact of my words. Is he truly going to leave Charleston, and if so, is he up fora long-distance relationship? I’m not sure I am, but I figure it’s time to float the idea.
“I don’t know,” Chris says.
I wait for him to say more, but he seems entranced by the writing on the back of the box. “I guess it makes sense for a handyman to have Handy Manny PEZ,” he says finally. “I’m open.”
Open?How? For business? What kind of business? A long-distance dating business? I decide not to press the issue. Not yet.
“Okay, then.” I grab the box from him. “Consider it yours. Now every time you look at it, you’ll think of this day.” And I hope they’re good thoughts. I’m pretty sure they will be. He said kissing me is better than sanding floors. At least, he implied it by saying our kiss was better than “business.”
We pay for the PEZ before we leave, and then he drives toward my apartment. When we’re halfway there, he says, “You’re not going to believe this.”
“What?” I ask.
“I left my toolbelt at my apartment.”
I dissolve into a fit of laughter.
“I’m glad you find my forgetfulness funny,” he says, laughing. “Because you’re going to have to get used to it.”
My ears perk at his last statement. It suggests longevity. I sink into the passenger seat, relaxed from the laughter and from the hope that Chris is open to continuing our relationship, whatever that looks like.
“It’s pretty funny, you have to admit,” I say.
“You make me more forgetful than usual.”
“Is that a good thing?”
He glances at me. “It’s definitely a thing.”
What in the world kind of answer is that? Chris Butcher: the man of mixed signals.
“I think it’s a good thing,” I say, “because it means we get to go back and decorate your apartment with four Handy Manny PEZ dispensers. I think they’re going to warm up the place.”