Page 18 of Salty Pickle

They both turn to me. “You wanted more?” Court asks.

“No, no! I mean, that’s all you have to say to Devin?” I turn to the man. “Court doesn’t thank you for what you do?”

Devin shrugs and unpacks his purchases. “It’s my job.”

“But he can be courteous. It’s literally his name. Court. Courtesy.”

The two men exchange a glance.

This is ridiculous. I pop out of the chair, the smell of food drawing me to the table like a honeybee to a flower.

“I’m making a new rule,” I say, picking up one of the juice cups and popping the lid. It must have been a proper store, because the containers are all recycled cardboard.

“Are you now?” Court asks. “Do enlighten us.”

I take a sip and nearly swoon as unbridled sugar splashes into my empty belly. “Hold on a second.”

I drink more, trying not to gulp, bordering on a brain freeze as the icy juice invigorates my bloodstream. This is heaven.

When I manage to force myself to stop, I set the half-empty cup on the table. “The new rule is that every time you forget to thank Devin for performing a task, he gets an hour off. I’ll keep track.”

I peer into a paper bag, not missing Devin’s tight smile. He’s trying not to cackle. I can tell.

“I won’t agree to that,” Court says.

“I think you will.” I pull out a plump sandwich filled with hummus and greens and avocado on thickly sliced bread.

The men watch me as I unwrap the paper from a corner and take a big chomp. I can’t stop the low moan that escapes as I eat it. It’s so good. My belly quivers for a second. I’m so relieved to have it.

“And why do you think I’ll do anything you say?” Court asks.

I swallow my bite, contemplating taking another before I answer. But I don’t. I sit in a chair, spreading the waxy paper on the table to admire the sandwich.

When I turn to face the room, the men are watching, and so is Matilda, her nose in the air. She’s clearly trying to decide between leaving her favorite spot and investigating my meal.

I pat my thigh, and she leaps down, startling Court into jumping out of his chair.

The papers under her hooves fly behind her, catching on the waves of air conditioning and fluttering through the room.

I pull out a big leaf of lettuce from the bread and hold it down to Matilda.

As the pages settle to the floor, I tell them, “Because somebody needs to work on this fixer-upper. Everyone will support me on this.”

“What fixer-upper?” Court asks.

He genuinely doesn’t get it.

So I tell him.

“You.”

6

COURT

If Lucy thinks she’s converting me to her impractical, judgmental, all-granola, off-the-grid lifestyle, she can ride out of here on that pain-in-the-ass goat she arrived with.

Devin makes a strategic exit as I storm throughout the office, picking up the papers that wound up on the floor.

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