The next afternoon when I show up for work, there’s a customer in the deli, a girl I recognize from my English class last semester. What’s her name again? I can’t remember. She has pretty auburn curls and wire-framed glasses that hide her large eyes, and she’s leaning over the counter talking low to Joe when I walk in. Joe winks at me and says, “Well, speak of the devil.” I wonder if they’re really talking about me or if it’s just one of those things he says. With him, I can’t tell.
She smiles sweetly at me, making me wonder how much Joe’s already said about me. “Hey, James,” she says. “I’m Marie, remember? We had Irvine for American Lit.”
“I remember.” I can’t see anyone past the swinging doors that lead into the kitchen. Would it be too forward to ask where Deon is? Or even where Joe’s
