by Mr. W
“How do you expect this to work if you won’t give me anything?” she asked, her mouth a darkly lipsticked knot.
He stood, his hands empty by his sides. “I did,” he said quietly. “I gave you what you asked for.”
“It’s not about the money,” she snapped. She leaned forward, elbow on the counter, one hand supporting her tired face. “We’ve been through this.”
“I don’t think I know you at all,” he said. His cell phone vibrated in his pocket; he ignored it. Not the right time. But she had heard the buzzing.
“That your girlfriend?”
“I don’t want to talk about this.”
She snorted. “Just take what you came for. Then get the hell out.” Looking away, she stuffed her black bangs to the sides of her red visor.
He picked up the grease-slick bag from the counter, paused, shrugged and headed for the door. He wasn’t sure why he frequented the Antagonistic Taco Hut–their prices weren’t even particularly good–but he knew he’d be back.