“Because six o’clock is when I like to eat.”
“No, I mean here. Why here? Why this restaurant?” Her voice conveyed
boredom.
“I’m comfortable here,” he murmured.
The waitress, while setting a bowl of steaming soup in front of him,
tipped the tray in her other hand and Gwen’s bowl of soup slid off and dumped
upside down on the table in front of her.
“You clumsy oaf,” she screeched and jumped to her feet wiping her
hands up and down her pants legs. “You spilled hot soup all over me.”
“Sit down, Dear,”
“Yes it did,” she argued. “And I want to speak to the
manager…this very minute.” She glared at the waitress who was trying to
decide whether to clean up the mess first, or get her manager. She decided on
the latter course of action.
“You’re doing it again, Dear,”
“These are very expensive slacks and I won’t be able to get the stain
out,” she insisted.
“Please sit down, Dear, and don’t make a big fuss over your ‘yard
sale’ pants.”
“I won’t sit down until the manager sees the damage.”
A man in his late twenties or early thirties, wearing a shirt and tie and
a flustered expression, scurried to their table. “I’m sorry for any
inconvenience, Sir,” he began, but quickly changed his focus to Gwen whose
clenched hands were anchored on each side of her well-rounded hips.
“Well, I should think so,” she fumed. “Just look at my slacks, and
what are you going to do about it?”
“Well, Mrs.…”
Gwen gave him an intimidating
stare, then said, “Penkley. I’m Mrs. Penkley.”
“Well, Mrs. Penkley.” The manager spoke with an air of having things
under control. “Your meal is on me.”
“I’d rather leave,” Gwen said pursing her lips.
“Please, Mrs. Penkley. I
apologize for any inconvenience this unfortunate accident has caused you.” He
signaled the hapless waitress, who immediately began cleaning up the spill.
“You and your husband both may enjoy your choice of entrees at my expense.”
“And what about my cleaning bill?” Gwen persisted looking miserably
at her slacks.
“Okay. Whatever it costs to clean your pants. Just bring in the paid
receipt, and I’ll reimburse you.”
Gwen eyed his name badge. “I’ll be looking you up, Mr. Charles
Decker.” She sat down and their meals came quickly.
“Tell me about your day,”
As recently as last week Gwen had instigated the incident that caused
their mailman to lose his job. Seeing him at the inopportune moment he decided
to scratch his privates, she’d turned it into a tale of sexual misconduct
invoking a zero tolerance policy in their neighborhood. She could give such a
convincing performance.
“There was a black car behind you when you pulled in the parking
lot,”
Gwen’s eyes widened. “I was followed by a black car?”
“I’m sure he wasn’t following you, Dear.”
“Yes, but—”
“Think nothing of it, Dear. I really shouldn’t have mentioned it.”
“Yeah, the same way you think nothing of Mandy flirting with you?”
she said angrily.
“Just because she’s divorced doesn’t mean she flirts with every man
she sees.”
“Do you think I’m stupid?” Gwen’s voice was accusing. “I’ve
seen the way she looks at you.”
“No, Dear, I don’t think you’re stupid. It’s just that you’re
reading too much into it. Mandy only brought our mail to the door because the
new mailman mixed ours with hers.”
Two
weeks later…
Mandy came out of her house across the street to retrieve her own mail.
“Hi,
Mandy crossed the street and stood next to him. “The police haven’t
found the black car yet, have they?”
“Are you doing okay?” Mandy asked with concern.
All he did was suggest to Gwen that she change her routine to confound
the stalker. Meet for dinner at five-thirty instead of six. Enter through the
back door instead of the front entrance. Then he had put the gun in the homeless
junkie’s hand and told him he could get his security job back if he made sure
no one entered the back door.
“You look like you haven’t eaten,” Mandy observed sympathetically.
“Why don’t you come over to my house later, and I’ll make you a good home
cooked meal?”
“Okay,”
“Okay. Six o’clock it is,” Mandy said cheerfully. She turned and
walked across the street reading her mail as she entered her house.
