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"So," his eyes flick down at the name printed on my tag and I lick my lips, nervously anticipating some shitty ass pick up line. I never could handle those well.
"Natasha, are you... seeing anyone?" he asks me, this teenager a year or two younger than me, all braces and pimples. It's not as bad as I've heard. It was manageable. Still, the question was a tough one for me to answer.
I pause, my eyes gazing down at my hands.
The clock ticks above, time time ticking away, steady tick tocking, a sound I used to imitate with my tongue, a sound that Dominic despises and I enjoy. I know he's waiting, and yet the internal battle within won't seem to resolve itself fast enough. Finally, I slide my fingers in between one another, locking them together as I look up.
I smile, cock my head to the side, all coy and innocent. "It's complicated," I answer.
"Complicated?" the boy pauses, tries to decide if it's worth pursuing farther. "Complicated how?" he asks.
"Well, I... I don't really date high school boys," I inform him, shrugging my shoulders and smiling. I briefly remember the pen I received for my last birthday in my backpack, tucked under the counter in front of me. I'm aware it's expensive enough I could sell it and run away, if ever I had the notion to. The sentiment attached makes it so I'm unwilling to part with it.
He laughs, shuffling uncomfortably on his stool. "Maybe I'm different?" he asks lightly. He's just not letting this go. My mobile rings. It's sharp and shrill, an unwelcome noise to the boy but a relief to me. It used to be 'Bad Boys'. The person with whom the ringtone is reserved for hadn't approved. He's not much for humor. I politely excuse myself, glancing at my boss and apologising as I slip out the door.
Once I'm outside, I look down at the screen. I feel a smile spread across my lips, a wicked one, I'll admit, as I lean against a pole.
I let it go to voicemail.
He leaves one.
Promptly calls again.
Leaves another.
One more time should do it, I decide.
The third voicemail is always my favorite. Sometimes he gets a slight edge to his tone, just, barely just.
The first message goes as follows:
'Natasha, where are you? You know you're always suppose to answer this phone when I call you. This is important.'
The second message:
'Natasha, stop being a child. I know that you've somehow slipped out and you're just waiting until the perfect moment to answer the phone. I assure you, the perfect moment is now.'
The third and final message, ah, and that's where the truth comes out:
'Natasha, I see you. I do not have time for this, you know. I'm a very busy man and you're wasting my time. Now, either call me back or walk to your left. I'd prefer the latter, but considering you're difficult, I'll let you choose as long as you do it quickly.'
I hit the button to end the call. I pause. I consider. I don't know how long he's been there, I can't even recall telling him when I work.
If I really wanted, I could turn and walk back into the restaurant, see if he would actually go in after me. The thought makes me grin. He'd look awfully out of place, all sleek, crisp and clean.
One time I told him he looked like a Ken doll, all put together in his best suit. He scoffed, gave me a look, clicked his pen once haughtily and put it down on the desk. I giggled then, giggled enough his lips gave the slightest of twitches and he had to look away to reprimand me. He was not a plastic plaything.
Finally, I shove the mobile down the front of my blouse, tucking it securely in my bra as I walk towards the car. I wait to do so until I'm in view of Dominic. He looks horrified. He sees death on a daily basis, meets it head on day in and day out. He's the strongest, bravest man I've ever known. He's also the most cowardly of men, at least in regards to any sort of womanly problem I may have.
We don't talk about the kneesocks he keeps in his desk drawer in case I ruin the ones I'm wearing, nor do we talk about the drawer I keep in his bathroom. As reluctant as he was for me to have it, once I had put the things there, he wasn't going to open it up and pull them out. Shopping for them had been enough for him. Me casually telling him I needed some money for tampons, well, I may as well have told him I was dating a vampire.
I get to the car before long, moving for the back. He shakes his head, points at the front. Oh. Serious business, then. I get into the car, glancing back behind me at the empty seat. Definitely serious business. I turn my gaze back to him.
He stares straight ahead. "I don't think it's wise for you to make overly friendly acquaintances, Natasha," he says finally, as if he's thought this through. I blink a few times, my eyes still fixed on the side of his face. His expression betrays nothing.
"I'm not sure I follow?" I say after a considerable pause. "Isn't the point for me to make friends rather than kick the shit out of people?"
"Well, yes, but there are friends, and then there are /friends/."
I laugh, catching a whisp of hair between two fingers and tucking it behind my ear. "I'm not going to fuck him," I say bluntly.
He winces. "Natasha, what have I said abou-"
I cut him off. "How do you know about it anyway?" I ask, crossing my arms. I'm honestly curious. "I wasn't aware I was actively being stalked," I add, giving him a pointed look.
He has the grace to look embarrassed, if only for a moment. His fingers flex on the steering wheel. He says nothing. My eyes move to the pen tucked lovingly into his pocket. It registers. "You fucking twatbag! The pen's bugged, isn't it?!" I don't know how I didn't realize before.
The look I receive for that insult makes me immediately regret it.
I gulp and shift. "Well, is it?" I maintain my ground, as best I could.
His expression settles and he sighs. "You're my responsibility, Natasha."
"You care about me," I accuse.
"You're a romantic," he replies.
I sigh, lean back in the chair. I breathe in the clean car smell with the underlying scent that was distinctly Dominic. Maybe I am. "Well," I say after a moment, looking back over at him. "You should have heard me say that it's complicated, then, if you're going to be all James Bond with my fucking birthday present."
He looks back at me for a moment. A beat passes. Then two. Then three. He looks as if he's about to say something, something that's just on the edge of his tongue. Just fucking say it already, I want to scream. His eyes drop. The moment passes. "I didn't hear that part," he says, and I know that's not what he wants to say.
"That's what I told him," I reply, "I mean, I'm fucking this guy already so..."
His gaze is so sharp and so sudden on my face I damn near flinch.
"Kidding!" I say quickly. I remember Dominic meeting the first boy that wanted in my pants. The boy wouldn't look at me, let alone speak to me, after that. He still hasn't told me what he said to him that day.
He looks relieved, his shoulders loosen, just barely. It wouldn't be noticable to anyone else but me. I grew up wanting to know everything about him. I know he doesn't love me as much as he loves his job, but I love him more than anything. No care, all responsibility is his mantra, but I know he cares. He's emotionally stunted, that's all.
"Wouldn't you know, anyway, you creep?" I say softly, smiling crookedly.
He pauses. "I'm a very busy man," he says, something he says far too often.
I sigh, but remain smiling. I know the answer, anyway. "Too busy to get into a relationship yourself," I reply.
It's something I bring up every so often. I don't know much about his life before the job, or if he even had one.
I know we don't and won't ever talk about his father.
I know he named me Natasha because of a character he'd read in a book. She was a woman he had admired for her bravery and strength.
He'd told me one night when he was trying to help me conquer my fear of the dark. I was still fairly young, but old enough it was embarrassing, though understandable, that the fear was there. He thought it might help if we sat in a dark room and just talked awhile. Darkness seems to help him tell secrets he wouldn't usually. Words come easier for him there, honest words, not the smooth talking of an official where every word, every syllable has to be delivered in such a way that even the smartest of people will bend to his every whim.
Sometimes I think he could talk a man right off a bridge. He's charming enough.
I wish we would still do that, sit and talk in the dark, his fingers tangled with mine. We'd always talk so long I'd forget where my hand ended and his began. It just felt so natural to be there.
I also wish I remembered more of what he'd told me those nights.
Dominic looks over at me for a moment. "It's complicated," he answers and I smile softly, laugh a little and look down.
"I should get back to work," I say after a moment and he nods, once, briskly.
He starts the car. "Be careful with that boy, Natasha. I don't trust him."
"You don't trust the boy that delivers your groceries once every two weeks either."
"I don't trust anyone," he says simply. The implication that he trusts me hangs in the air, so I leave it alone.
"Neither do I," I tell him.
He looks over at me and reaches out to catch a strand of hair between his fingers. He tucks it back behind my ear, the same strand of hair that had given me trouble a few minutes previous. I smile.
"I'm throwing that fucking pen away." I inform him.
"No you're not," he answers as I get out of the car.
I don't answer him. Instead, I close the door behind me and start back for the restaurant.
I hear the hum of his car engine before he pulls out of the spot and drives past, as if we hadn't shared another moment between us. As if we hadn't been thrust together, two lost souls trapped in a world of darkness, struggling, yearning for some flicker of light in the cruel world we live in.
No, I won't throw the pen away.
He was right.
He always is.
I'll probably be buried with the fucking thing.
Just like he will be buried with his.
Fin.