Page 12

Otis thumped his tail once, then returned his attention to the napkin in Lorrie’s hand.

“I brought him something,” she said as she opened the napkin and revealed a couple pieces of bacon.

Otis sat up, waiting, staring at the bacon, nose twitching.

“Fine,” I said.

Lorrie held out a slice of bacon. Otis took it gently, swallowed it whole, then gazed at her as if she’d just explained the meaning of life and it turned out to be bacon.

For a few minutes, it felt simple. That was the dangerous thing about Lorrie. She could walk into the store, step behind the counter, reach for her blue mug, and make a man forget he’d spent two weeks telling himself she’d chosen someone else, though it wasn’t like I’d ever told her how I’d felt about her.

She knew where everything was. The sugar tin with the stuck lid. The drawer with the price stickers. The spot near the register where Brian hid the good pen after losing every other pen in the building. She poured coffee into her mug, took a sip, and made a face.

“This is terrible. This is what happens when coffee goes to die.”

“You disappeared and left me in charge of the pot.”

A small smile crossed her face. “I can see that now. I should’ve left instructions.”

“You did. They were too long.”

She laughed, and it warmed the room more than the sun coming through the window. I looked down at the counter before I said something I’d regret.

The door opened, and a woman in white sunglasses came in asking for Diana Ross. Lorrie set down her mug and handled the sale as if she’d worked yesterday, finding the album, talking the woman into a Dionne Warwick cassette too, and ringing her up.

Brian arrived a little after noon with Rolling Stone tucked under one arm and hair that was sticking up in three places. He stopped when he saw Lorrie behind the counter.

“Well,” he said. “Look who remembered we exist.”

“Nice to see you too,” she said.

“I’m hurt, obviously. I’ll recover with plenty of attention.”

“You’ll recover faster if you price the new arrivals,” I said.

Brian dropped the magazine on the counter. Prince stared up from the cover, all cheekbones, eyeliner, and confidence. Lorrie stared at the cover as if she’d never seen a magazine before. Maybe I had opened too early.

Brian scratched Otis behind the torn ear. “Did she bring bacon?”

Otis looked away.

“Traitor,” Brian said.

“He’s loyal to whoever feeds him,” Lorrie said.

Brian grinned and pointed at me. “Dean’s been grouchy without you here working.”

“You’re fired.”

“You fire me twice a week.”

Lorrie smiled as the three of us stood behind the counter like nothing had shifted. Like Paul didn’t exist. Like I hadn’t started wondering whether Twin/Tone was a sign.

The afternoon passed in waves. Two college girls argued over whether Madonna belonged under pop or dance. A man in a golf shirt asked for Barbra Streisand, whispering the title like he was embarrassed. A kid tried to trade in a warped Foreigner record and looked wounded when I refused.

Lorrie slipped back into work without effort. She put stickers on cassettes, straightened the Prince display, and told Brian that if he put the Replacements in miscellaneous again, she’d start putting his Rush albums in the clearance bin.

At one point, we both reached for the same roll of receipt paper, her wrist brushing mine.