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The fluorescent lights of Good Burger hum a low, constant note, casting a pallid glow over the grease-slicked linoleum. The air hangs thick with the scent of griddled onions, frying patties, and stale air conditioning. Outside, the West Covina sun beats down, a golden, relentless orb, but inside, a perpetual, artificial twilight reigns. Dex leans against the stainless steel counter, the slick vinyl of his uniform a second skin. He’s a walking contradiction: lanky and awkwardly graceful, a mop of messy black hair, and a sneer that’s more of a defense mechanism than genuine malice. He fiddles with a stray bottle cap, rolling it between his thumb and index finger as he addresses Monique, the tough-as-nails cashier with a perpetually bored expression.
“So, Monique. What are you going to do tonight after you lock up?” His voice is a low, sarcastic murmur, a tone he perfects with the ease of a master.
Monique doesn’t even look up from polishing the bell. She’s all sharp angles and attitude, the kind of person who could make a simple question sound like a personal offense. “I thought I’d go home.”
“Home? Why?” Dexter pushes a little harder, looking for the easy laugh.
Monique’s gaze finally lifts, and it’s a stare of pure, unadulterated disdain. “Well...that’s where my stuff is.”
Dexter’s lips curl into a sardonic grin. “Stuff. Ha, ha, ha.” It’s a dry, joyless sound, a mockery of laughter.
He tosses the bottle cap into a nearby garbage can. He’s already bored. Just then, a low, rhythmic whirring cuts through the mundane sounds of the restaurant. Ed glides into the frame, a literal human blur. He’s a study in wide-eyed earnestness, a collision of bright orange uniform, dreadlocked hair, and the gentle, humming sound of his roller-blades. His skates, a pair of chunky, scuffed-up black rollerblades, are his world. They’re his limbs, his language. He moves with a silent, confident grace that seems at odds with his vacant stare. He coasts past Dexter, the whoosh of his momentum stirring the air. He circles back, his face a picture of innocent inquiry.
“Hey, Dex. Want to hang out tonight?”
The simple, unadulterated question lands like a punch. All of Dexter’s carefully constructed indifference shatters. The memory of the accident, a flash of ultramarine, denim, and asphalt, floods his mind. He feels the heat rising in his neck, a furious, prickly warmth.
“I don't know, but—” His voice is a low rumble, but it quickly builds to a shout. His finger, an accusing weapon, shoots out to point directly at Ed’s chest. The friendly light in Ed's eyes flickers out, replaced by a soft confusion. Hey, you better be careful.
Ed, completely oblivious, tilts his head.
“You!” The word is a hammer blow. It rips through the air, silencing the gentle hum of the fryers and the idle chatter of a few customers.
Ed blinks, slowly, like a cartoon character. “Me?”
“Now I know where I saw you before. You’re the roller-blading nut that caused my accident!”
The words tumble out, a torrent of pent-up anger and resentment. Dexter can see it all over again: Ed, a grinning fool on skates, accidentally pushing Otis, a customer, over, and causing a domino effect of chaos. Otis, an older man with a paunch and a grimace of pain, lies on the floor, cradling his hip.
“Uh...no?” Ed offers, a faint question in his tone, as if maybe he could convince Dexter of another reality. He simply doesn’t get it. He doesn’t see the connection. To him, he was just having a great time roller-blading.
“You’re the reason why I owe $1,900! You’re the reason my mom found out I was driving without a license! And you cost me a fortune! You wrecked my summer, man. You ruined my life.” Dexter’s chest heaves with the force of his frustration.
He can't look away from Ed’s placid face, and a fresh wave of fury washes over him, mixed with a deeper, more complicated feeling he can’t name. A strange, bitter ache. The feeling that Ed, of all people, the only person who’d ever been able to make him laugh in the last few months, had been the one to ruin everything. The ache is a silent, unacknowledged part of the rage.
Ed’s face falls. The innocent, literal-minded boy is replaced by a hint of genuine hurt. His eyes, usually so bright, are dim. He looks at Dexter, truly looks at him, with a gaze that is both uncomprehending and wounded.
“So, you don’t want to hang out tonight?” The question is so innocent, so pure, that it’s like a slap in the face.
Dexter’s anger hardens, a protective shell against the unexpected vulnerability in Ed’s voice. “No. I don’t want to hang out with you...ever.”
The silence that follows is deafening. It’s filled with the low sizzle of frying oil, the distant pop of a soda machine. Ed stands perfectly still, a statue of dejection in the middle of the dining area. Suddenly, a pained groan from the floor breaks the spell. Otis shifts, wincing as he tries to sit up.
He manages to lock eyes with Dexter. “Do you think you can get me to a hospital? I think I broke my ass.”
Dexter’s focus snaps away from Ed. The real, immediate problem is right in front of him. He rushes over to Otis, his anger momentarily forgotten, replaced by a flicker of worry.
He turns back to Ed, a final, frustrated glare. “Get out of the way.”