“Isabel! Careful! Any more broken plates are coming out of your paycheck,” Clyde says to me. He isn’t yelling despite the fact this is my fifth broken plate of the day, and that, more than anything, freaks me out.
He’s being too nice to me. Because he pities me.
“You okay?” Sharon asks as she kneels to help me sweep up the tiny pieces I can’t pick up with my hands.
“No. I am definitely not okay. I’m terrible.”
“I’m guessing the second date didn’t go as planned?” she asks as she stands up and carefully walks the dustpan full of broken china to the trashcan under the counter.
“I ended up leaving ten minutes into a romantic picnic he’d set out for us,” I explain as I stand next to her and dump the larger shards into the black bag.
“Yikes. Have you talked to him since?”
“No. He’s
