“You like this with everyone, or just me?”
“Just people who make my friend cry. Be nice to her. Or else.” She shuts the door in my face. Clarissa is sitting on the couch. She’s got two TV dinners ready. “This is the best cooking I do,” she says.
“Got any pasta?” I ask.
“Probably. Why?”
I walk into the kitchen and check out the cupboards. “Grocery store in this town?”
“Couple of minutes walk, but what’s wrong with what I made?”
“I wouldn’t feed that to a dog. Come on, we’ll take a walk.”
* * *
At the grocery store, I pick up the ingredients to make some decent meatballs. They haven’t got all the herbs I need, but it should be enough. “You can cook?” Clarissa asks as we make our way to the register.
“You sound surprised.”
“Wouldn’t have guessed that about you.”
“Like I told you before. Lot you don’t know about me.”
“So tell me something. What’s your favorite color?”
“Don’t have one.”
“Good start. Favorite TV show?”
“Don’t watch TV.”
“Favorite band?”
“Al Boley.”
“Shit? The crooner? You serious?”
“Problem?”
“No, I just thought I was the only person born this century who’d heard of him.”
“I was born last century, so it is just you.”
“How old are you?”
“Thirty-five. Why?”
“You look older.”
“Thanks.” I dump the basket on the register. The kid behind it is covered in zits and he only seems to have eyes for Clarissa. I get a sudden urge to squeeze his throat until his eyes pop out.
“Hi, Clarissa,” he says. “Friend of yours?”
“Evening, Kevin. I guess you could say that.”
Kevin looks at me while he’s scanning the stuff, his eyes narrowed. “How’d you know Clarissa?” he asks.
“None of your business,” I reply. “How much?”