Torture to Her Soul(40)

Her gaze bounces between the food and me with confusion. "You didn't want anything?"

"No."

"Why not?" she asks, taking a bite of her sub, practically moaning as she chews. "Jesus, it's really good."

I believe her.

The food here always is.

But I can't eat right now and certainly not at this place.

"You know how you think I'm paranoid for believing people might try to poison me?"

"I wouldn't really say you're paranoid," she says, "but yeah..."

"Well if anyone were to ever actually do it, I'd put my money on him."

I motion with my head toward the counter. Her eyes widen, her gaze shifting from me to her food again with a hint of panic. She suddenly looks sick.

"Relax," I say, letting out a light laugh at her strong reaction. "Your food's fine. He wouldn't mess with it."

"How do you know?"

"He has no reason to," I say. "You haven't insulted him."

"And you have?"

"Yes."

"How?"

I stare at her, considering how to answer. "By existing, mostly."

She nods and goes back to eating, as if she understands, when she doesn't. Not really. Not yet, anyway. But she will, just as soon as the man starts unraveling, the shock of my appearance wearing off and undoing his carefully constructed happy-go-lucky, whistle-while-you-work façade.

Most people overlook men like me, or see us as a necessary evil, staying out of our way to keep from crossing our paths, but he's too strong willed, too wound tight with a misguided sense of righteousness, the stick up his ass hitting way too deep for him to just keep his mouth shut and mind his own business.

Coming here was definitely a bad idea.

I know better than to do it.

But Karissa wants to know things… things just telling her won't make her understand. I can shout that the sky is blue all afternoon but until you look at it yourself, you'll never understand what shade. It could be deep royal blue or a faintly tinted white.

And when it comes to this man's feelings toward me, it's as dark as midnight.

The whistling never starts up again, but there's more noise now, things rattling and drawers banging. It reminds me of Karissa trying to cook in the kitchen.

Karissa's food is nearly gone when I hear the voice ring through the deli, his words polite, but his tone is always brash, like just the sound of it can rub a person raw, grate the skin right from their body and expose them to the bone. This is nothing new—he greets customers every day, every chance he gets, making sure the food is good and they like being here.

Our table is in the center of it all, but he does a wide circle around it, saving us for last. Karissa watches the man curiously as others smile whenever he smiles, laughing along with him. His humor can be infectious with the right crowd, but I'm not his target audience.

Neither will she be, for that matter.

Finally, he comes to our table. Karissa glances up at him, her expression slipping. She turns to me, hesitant, and I can practically see her heart beating out of her chest in alarm.

There's no warm welcome here.

No smiles or laughs for us.

He looks furious.

He presses his palms flat against the table, leaning over until his face is a mere few inches from mine. I can feel the heat radiating from him, smell the sweat coating his skin, the tinge of salt mixing with a hint of tobacco, a scent I'd be ecstatic if I never inhaled again.

My gaze shifts to meet his for the second time in a day, trying to come off as relaxed and at ease, but the inside of me is taut, coiled like a spring.

"There isn't somewhere else you can be?" he asks, voice low. His breath reeks of hot cinnamon, like the flavored toothpicks he chews on to keep from smoking. "Somewhere else you can eat? There are thousands of restaurants in this city, Ignazio. Thousands. Why do you come here?"

"The food is good."

"The food is good," he mocks. "You didn't order anything."

"I was concerned about safety."

He narrows his angry eyes at my casual words, taking it offensively. "You think I would mess with your food, do you? Think I would try to make you sick? Poison you, like those other schmucks you deal with?"

"I think it's possible."

"You think so highly of yourself. You always have. But I would never. Never. This is my life… my food is everything… and you're not worth it. You're not worthy of eating my food, period. I would certainly never contaminate it for the likes of you."

The voice is slowly skinning me alive, pulling me apart piece by piece. I stare at him hard, seeing Karissa's stunned expression from my peripheral. I don't turn to her. I do nothing but drum my fingers on the table, absorbing every word he says, knowing she hears it, too.