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: : : —NO, FREYA SIGHS, —THERE'S NO reason for it. Or, no, the reason is because he thinks that I'm like always riding his ass about stuff that he's done. I rode his ass about not having a job. I rode his ass about not coming with me to Texas. Now that he's finally caught me doing something quote unquote wrong I think he sees it as like a thing that he can finally ride my ass about. I think the motherfucker is actually happy.
Freya downs the last of her pint. —Happy? Fletcher says.
—Yeah, she says. She hails a waitress, indicates two more by pointing back and forth between her empty glass and Fletcher's. —You know, like he's finally scored a point against me or something? It seems to give him like some kind of satisfaction.
—So in a way, Fletcher says, —he should be thanking me.
—Ha! Well, you could bring that up to him, but I don't know how well it would go over. Actually, I don't really think he wants to see you at the moment. She puts a hand over her eyes. —God, she says. —That's so embarrassing to have to say. I can't believe that he's actually behaving in a way that's embarrassing to me.
Fletcher shrugs, looks down to bend a piece of foil.
—Whatever, Freya says. —He'll get over it.
—I'm not too worried, says Fletcher. It was worth it, he thinks.
New beers hit the table.
—So, Fletcher says, —Happy Valentine's Day.
—Yeah, right, Freya says. —Actually, there is some good news—I got the promotion.
—Hey, Fletcher says, —that's great.
—I start as manager on Monday.
They toast, and drink.
—So who's gonna be the new assistant manager? Fletcher asks.
—Uh, Freya says. —Do you know Denise?
—She was at your party? Fletcher asks.
—Yeah.
—Tallish girl? Blonde? With like— he waves his hand in front of his face.
—That's her, Freya says.
—She's kind of strange, Fletcher says.
—She's strange, Freya says. —But other than me she's been there the longest. She's been a shift supervisor for, I don't know, a year now? She's a little weird, but she'll do fine as the assistant manager; I'm not worried.
—OK, says Fletcher.
—So what's new with you? says Freya. —How's, uh, Charlotte?
—Cassandra, Fletcher says.
—Right, Cassandra, sorry.
—Charlotte was the other one, Fletcher says.
—Duly noted, Freya says. —So how are things, anyway?
—Uh, Fletcher says, —well, they're, uh, interesting.
—Interesting? Freya says. —Interesting how?
—She has a kid, Fletcher says.
—Oh, Freya says. —Well. That is interesting.
—Yeah, says Fletcher.
—How old?
—Four.
—Four, Freya says, as though trying it out. —Dad in the picture?
—They're divorced, Fletcher says. —I think he's still around in Chicago somewhere; I didn't really get the whole deal.
—Huh, Freya says. —Wow.
—Yeah, Fletcher says. He puts on a stoic face and nods. —Yep.
Freya watches him, and Fletcher can feel that she's assessing something, his mood, maybe his overall emotional state. He's not sure what. But he loves it when she looks at him this way, serious, concerned. It lets him know that he is cared for.
—How do you feel about it? she asks.
He claps his palms together and touches them to his lips, holds that pose for a long moment. —I don't know, he says.
: : :
:: Year entries
Index | << | 35 | >>
:: Freya entries
Index | << | 10 | >>
:: Fletcher entries
Index | << | 7 | >>
Further Reading:
Recent input in the Narrative Technologies weblog:
:: Gangs of New York, World-Building by Dan Hill
[fresh as of 1/21/03]
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