Some Place Better Than Here

Chapter 20: When Doves Cry

20
When Doves Cry

==========MARY===========

Stationed at my usual post, the middle checkout line of the three tills that formed trisecting lanes at the entrance of Wright Bros, I had to go pee. Like, really badly. But I decided to hold off until I was allowed to retreat from the battle in T minus fifteen minutes. I would be retreating, but the war of working for minimum wage, waged on.

There was a weird day gap of silence with Danny going on. Which was like, whatever. Not like we were boyfriend and girlfriend or anything. And I hate clingy people. I had thought for sure Squeegee Boy would turn out to be a Stage-Five.

Still, while dying of boredom at my unoccupied checkout line, I took the initiative to be productive and looked over at the flowers on display; the fancy floral arrangements from the adjacent greenhouse next door. I went fishing in my pocket for that fifty Jim gave me, thinking I'd buy Danny's mom some flowers. Thanking her for all that the "Danny's" had done for me. Just as I was wondering what would look prettier in Danny's house, Hydrangea's or Forget-Me-Not's, the devil himself walked in. As in the phrase: speaking of the devil (in this case, Danny. Not the fictional character whom I occasionally gambled with while doing my makeup).

"Who's this handsome stranger stalking me at work?" I said, suddenly wanting to touch his skin.

"Hey," was all he said back. It took a second to catch up, but then it felt like my fourth-grade crush just rejected me. I know that was immature, or whatever, but that Hey sort of hurt.

"When are you done?" he asked.

"In, like, fifteen."

Danny then said he'd wait outside for me and walked out of the store. I really started feeling the grade school blues and could not concentrate for the life of me on anything I was doing.

Ten minutes later I was off. I walked out of Wright Bros and towards The Stang parked in the furthest corner of the parking lot.

"What's up?" I asked as I got in Danny's car.

It wasn't until we were at the exit of the parking lot when he said, "Nothing," and then took a sharp turn that slung me against the seatbelt, pulling out of the driveway onto Ridgeway Avenue.

We didn't say anything. All I could hear was the moaning of the engine as it varied in speed, racing up and then slowing down behind cars as he flirted with getting in a fender bender. It wasn't normal. Something was off. Danny was horribly off. I couldn't figure out what was different until I realized that the radio wasn't on.

"Did something happen?" I asked.

Danny frowned. Shook his head. Then said, "Nah."

The Stang ran over a sudden pothole. My side of the car thumped down with the sound of something within the wheelbase crunching.

"Fuck," Danny grunted under his breath.

At the Ridgeway and Atlantic Way intersection, he turned right. Danny's wrist was flopped over the steering wheel, and he kept his eyes locked on the road.

"Danny?"

He glanced at me, then back to the road.

"Talk to me!" I said, pushing my open palm against his shoulder. Absently, with nothing in his eyes, he stared right through me with a disgusted and bent face that nearly made me cry. I don't know why, but I felt like bawling. He then jammed the side of his fist into the wheel, blaring the horn at a car crawling in front of us. Which, yes, was going ridiculously slow, but not to the point of justifying his extreme road rage.