The Road. Part II

Part II. Guy

While I waited, the place filled up. A trucker came in, jeans stiff with grease, a toothpick hanging off his lip. He nodded at Betty, and she nodded back. No words. That’s how it worked out here. Another guy, younger, sat two stools down. His pale face was pinched, and his unkempt hair stuck out at odd angles. He had a thin, sharp nose and a restless jaw that twitched as if chewing on nothing. His shirt was wrinkled, the collar slightly askew. Betty poured him coffee without asking. 

“You sweet on her?” the younger guy asked, jerking his chin toward Betty. 

He saw me looking at her. 

“What are you talking about? I don’t even know the woman,” I said. 
“Man, you gotta be the last damn fag on earth not to fall for someone like that,” he said, his eyes wide. 

I turned my head and looked at him, cold and hard. “Did you just call me a fag? Or did I mishear?” 

“Hey, hey, of course not, man. You’re definitely not one of them. I can spot ‘em a mile away. Damn perverts.” He grinned, like he thought we’d just established some unspoken bond, then leaned closer. His grin widened, and he said, like he was letting me in on a secret, “It’s the look in their eyes, the way they move, the way they talk. It’s like they can’t help it – it’s just who they are. Trust me, I’ve seen enough of them to know exactly what’s what.” His gaze lingered, full of cheap certainty, daring me to confirm it. 

“Good at reading people, are you?” I said, smirking just enough to make it sting. “What about me? Care to write my biography while you’re at it?” 

He leaned in further, squinting like he was examining a crack in a piece of glass. “You? It’s obvious, man,” he said, his tone sliding into something slick and smug. “You’ve seen shit, done things, and you’re still trying to figure out if it was worth it. You keep your guard up, but it’s not to protect yourself – it’s so no one sees how much of you’s already been used up. You want to keep people close, but not too close. And you’re not afraid of being alone. Hell, you might even prefer it.” He paused, like a hyena waiting to see if the lion flinched. “I’m right, aren’t I?” 

I wanted to kick him hard enough to rattle every bone in his miserable body, but I let it hang there, let him feel the weight of what he’d just said. 

“Incredible,” I said finally, my voice low. “Making assumptions must be your special talent. Now get the hell out of here, Sherlock. I’m not in the mood.” 

“You’re definitely not married,” he said, like he couldn’t leave well enough alone. “No kids either. Probably never will be.” His voice faltered at the end, like he realized he’d already pushed a step too far and didn’t want to find out what came next. 

"Listen up," I snapped, "Stop sitting there like a damn moron and drink your coffee. It’s not gonna drink itself, and I sure as hell don’t have the patience to sit here and watch you waste my time with your pathetic posturing.” 

His mouth opened, some smartass retort already forming on his lips, but I saw it die there. Pride buckled under the weight of whatever fight he thought he had in him. For a second, he just sat there, his face twitching like he was choking on his own words. Finally, with a grunt that sounded more like a whimper, he muttered, "Well, you asked for it," and slunk back to his seat. His shoulders sagged, his head down like a dog slinking off after getting kicked.


To be continued...