The River 1.1.1 (Revision)
“Sardines get more room than this,” Cerise commented on the crowd jostling past us as we slid onto two recently vacated stools at the Formica counter. Just behind the divider, steam and grease hissed off the flat grill as two short order cooks fried eggs, bacon, pancetta, and strips of steak.
My mouth began watering at the greasy aroma of cooking animal fat that rose with the steam. A stocky man wearing a bright green t-shirt, waved in our direction. His sleeves were rolled up to his shoulders in a vain attempt to alleviate the heat coming off the massive grill that hid the majority of the wall behind him. I could feel my cheeks beginning to thaw under the onslaught.
“Hey, Liv!” he called when he caught my eyes. “I’ll be right with ya.”
I winked in response and said, “Hey, Toni,” then turned to Cerise. Reaching into my pocket, I tapped out a cigarette and laid the pack on the counter. She stared with unabashed lust at the raw meat that one of the cooks had thrown onto the grill with a sizzle and a pop as the grease exploded. I kicked her.
“Rein it in, Risie,” I admonished around the cigarette in my mouth, though my expression remained relaxed and unconcerned as I closed my lighter and dropped it in my pocket.
She responded by grabbing my cigarette, “You’re one to talk. You’re drooling just as much as I am.” She took one drag and sneezed. “Ugh, I don’t know how you can stand these – burns my nose.”
Moving faster than was wise, I recaptured my cigarette and twisted it back into my mouth. Cerise clucked her tongue. “Now, who needs to rein it in?”
“Boo,” I said dismissively as I exhaled the smoke toward the roof.
Dishrag slung over his shoulder, Toni smiled widely at me and said with genuine warmth, “Where you two been, Liv?”
My expression softened. “St. Stanislaus’,” I answer truthfully, without offering a further explanation. Toni didn’t press.
“Real tragedy, the Father was a good guy. Can’t understand what kind of monster could hurt a priest.” Shaking his head, he turned to Cerise, wiping his palms on his jeans. “You okay, Cerise?” he ventured questioningly.
Cerise returned his sympathetic smile wholeheartedly and I swear everyone could hear his heart beat faster. Poor boy, he was hardly the first and would by no means be the last. I snickered cruelly. Out of the corner of her eyes, I could see Cerise’s gaze darken. I coughed to mask my laughter, poorly.
Toni rubbed the back of his neck and asked, “So, ya gonna branch out tonight?”
I pointed at Cerise with my cigarette and cautioned: “I think she might leap over the counter if we do.”
He barked a laugh. “Okay then, two cheese steaks that are just seared.”
“But rare,” Cerise added pleadingly, her eyes flickering to the grill once more. I sighed. I hooked a nearby ashtray and tapped the top of my cigarette. The dull gray ash dropped like a bundle of snowflakes.
“You got it,” he promised with a lopsided grin, and turned to give the orders to the cooks.
“Dr. Wetherden?” I turned reflexively toward the voice. A herd of college students had just entered Primanti’s. In the front of the group stood a willowy brunette girl wearing a bright amethyst scarf that trailed to her knees and a hooded sweatshirt emblazoned with the words “Duquesne University.”
“Evening, Laren,” I responded, waving her over. The girl wove her way through the packed restaurant to where we sat perched. I turned to Cerise. “Laren took my Introduction to Religious Iconography last semester. This is Dr. Cerise Mirault, Laren.”
Taking off her mittens, she reached for Cerise’s hand. Cerise leaned her weight back onto her arm on the counter as she turned to shake Laren’s hand lightly. “Pleasure, ma fille.”
“You’re the folklorist in the World Literatures Department, aren’t you?” she asked excited.
“Guilty as charged,” Cerise shrugged, trying to keep her attention away from the smell of food.
“My roommate loved,” she stressed the final word, “your class on the influences of medieval Catholicism on the folklore of the Balkans.”
“Please, Laren,” I said, pushing the smoke out of my sinuses, “her ego cannot afford to swell any larger in a building this cramped and crowded. We’ll all be smothered.”
Cerise shoved against my shoulder with more than friendly force, causing me to plant my feet on the ground to keep my balance. My golden eyes found their echo in Cerise’s honeyed irises. I silently rebuked her irresponsible and rash reaction.
Laren giggled, missing our unspoken conversation. “Well, I’m with some friends, but it was great to see you, Dr. Wetherden! It was very nice to meet you, Dr. Mirault.”
Cerise nodded and smiled, her eyes still holding a grudge. “Be safe, Laren,” I called after her and finished under my breath, so that only Cerise heard, “The night holds many uncertainties.” My eyes returned to the package Cerise had set on the counter.
© 2008 Elizabeth Mock
My mouth began watering at the greasy aroma of cooking animal fat that rose with the steam. A stocky man wearing a bright green t-shirt, waved in our direction. His sleeves were rolled up to his shoulders in a vain attempt to alleviate the heat coming off the massive grill that hid the majority of the wall behind him. I could feel my cheeks beginning to thaw under the onslaught.
“Hey, Liv!” he called when he caught my eyes. “I’ll be right with ya.”
I winked in response and said, “Hey, Toni,” then turned to Cerise. Reaching into my pocket, I tapped out a cigarette and laid the pack on the counter. She stared with unabashed lust at the raw meat that one of the cooks had thrown onto the grill with a sizzle and a pop as the grease exploded. I kicked her.
“Rein it in, Risie,” I admonished around the cigarette in my mouth, though my expression remained relaxed and unconcerned as I closed my lighter and dropped it in my pocket.
She responded by grabbing my cigarette, “You’re one to talk. You’re drooling just as much as I am.” She took one drag and sneezed. “Ugh, I don’t know how you can stand these – burns my nose.”
Moving faster than was wise, I recaptured my cigarette and twisted it back into my mouth. Cerise clucked her tongue. “Now, who needs to rein it in?”
“Boo,” I said dismissively as I exhaled the smoke toward the roof.
Dishrag slung over his shoulder, Toni smiled widely at me and said with genuine warmth, “Where you two been, Liv?”
My expression softened. “St. Stanislaus’,” I answer truthfully, without offering a further explanation. Toni didn’t press.
“Real tragedy, the Father was a good guy. Can’t understand what kind of monster could hurt a priest.” Shaking his head, he turned to Cerise, wiping his palms on his jeans. “You okay, Cerise?” he ventured questioningly.
Cerise returned his sympathetic smile wholeheartedly and I swear everyone could hear his heart beat faster. Poor boy, he was hardly the first and would by no means be the last. I snickered cruelly. Out of the corner of her eyes, I could see Cerise’s gaze darken. I coughed to mask my laughter, poorly.
Toni rubbed the back of his neck and asked, “So, ya gonna branch out tonight?”
I pointed at Cerise with my cigarette and cautioned: “I think she might leap over the counter if we do.”
He barked a laugh. “Okay then, two cheese steaks that are just seared.”
“But rare,” Cerise added pleadingly, her eyes flickering to the grill once more. I sighed. I hooked a nearby ashtray and tapped the top of my cigarette. The dull gray ash dropped like a bundle of snowflakes.
“You got it,” he promised with a lopsided grin, and turned to give the orders to the cooks.
“Dr. Wetherden?” I turned reflexively toward the voice. A herd of college students had just entered Primanti’s. In the front of the group stood a willowy brunette girl wearing a bright amethyst scarf that trailed to her knees and a hooded sweatshirt emblazoned with the words “Duquesne University.”
“Evening, Laren,” I responded, waving her over. The girl wove her way through the packed restaurant to where we sat perched. I turned to Cerise. “Laren took my Introduction to Religious Iconography last semester. This is Dr. Cerise Mirault, Laren.”
Taking off her mittens, she reached for Cerise’s hand. Cerise leaned her weight back onto her arm on the counter as she turned to shake Laren’s hand lightly. “Pleasure, ma fille.”
“You’re the folklorist in the World Literatures Department, aren’t you?” she asked excited.
“Guilty as charged,” Cerise shrugged, trying to keep her attention away from the smell of food.
“My roommate loved,” she stressed the final word, “your class on the influences of medieval Catholicism on the folklore of the Balkans.”
“Please, Laren,” I said, pushing the smoke out of my sinuses, “her ego cannot afford to swell any larger in a building this cramped and crowded. We’ll all be smothered.”
Cerise shoved against my shoulder with more than friendly force, causing me to plant my feet on the ground to keep my balance. My golden eyes found their echo in Cerise’s honeyed irises. I silently rebuked her irresponsible and rash reaction.
Laren giggled, missing our unspoken conversation. “Well, I’m with some friends, but it was great to see you, Dr. Wetherden! It was very nice to meet you, Dr. Mirault.”
Cerise nodded and smiled, her eyes still holding a grudge. “Be safe, Laren,” I called after her and finished under my breath, so that only Cerise heard, “The night holds many uncertainties.” My eyes returned to the package Cerise had set on the counter.
© 2008 Elizabeth Mock
Comments
Post a Comment