Page 24 of In a Haze

As she gets out the door and I’m now right there, I decide to try something different. “Hi, Sharon. How are you today?”

Because she actually seems to process my words, I pause to see how she’ll respond.

Lifting one of her hands off a wheel, she bends her fingers so that just the index one is pointing at me. “Rep,” she says, and my skin crawls. I don’t know if it’s the way her voice sounds or the way her eyes look fuzzy, as if she’s possessed, but I don’t want to hear this.

“Okay, see you later,” I say and begin walking off.

It doesn’t stop her, though. “Resent!”

By the time I’m turning the corner into the cafeteria, she’s on to the mumbling phase of her outburst. I just pray she’s not coming here.

When I enter the cafeteria, I get in line—thankfully, not as long as the one on Sunday—and begin scanning the room for Joe. He’s nowhere to be seen, so I figure I beat him here.

I notice now that everyone seems a little calmer. When I spy the pan of runny eggs under a heat lamp just ahead, I know that Joe was right about the food on the weekends being so much better, but the mood today is far and away more calm than over the past two days. Today feels less…aggressive.

It’s got to be the staff. I’m sure of that. I could go the rest of my life without having to deal with another Red.

I now have my tray in hand, plastic utensils and napkins on top, and I refuse to look behind me to see if Sharon’s made her way here. But I feel something close to my ear, suddenly. Something warm, breathy.

“Hey, sexy.”

But that’s not Joe. I turn my head to find Bobbi standing right behind me, and I wonder what it’s going to take to get her to leave me alone. “Back off. Maybe you don’t know I like men.”

“Men? As inplural?” Before I can respond, she says, “And since when didyoustart talking, Anna? I thought the cat had your tongue.”

I shake my head and move forward, placing my tray on the round metal bars made for sliding my food down the line.

“Wait. There’s something there about a tongue and a pussy. I wonder what that is.”

“Leave me alone, Bobbi.”

“Oh…she knows my name.”

“Eggs?”

It takes me a second to realize the server behind the glass is asking what I want while Bobbi’s been distracting me. “Oh, no, thank you.”

“Bacon?”

“A slice, I guess.”

“Oh, shedoeslike meat,” says Bobbi, and I decide to just ignore her. They’ll be distracting her soon enough.

The woman hands my plate to the next server who asks, “Hash browns?”

Even though they look like they’ve been swimming in grease for the past hour, I’ll give them a try. “A little, please.”

“Waffles?”

“Uh, one.”

After placing the tiny thing on my plate, she hands it to the next worker who asks me if I want butter and syrup and tells me when to stop as she pours them on. While I wait, Bobbi slides her tray into mine with enough force that my spoon bounces off the tray onto the floor.

I ignore it while I also continue to ignoreheras best I can—but she’s making it difficult.

The server hands me my plate and then, after putting it on my tray, I slide it over to the refrigerated area. Glancing down at my plate, nothing seems appealing, so I’m hoping the fruit will be a good choice. I take a slice of honeydew melon and a banana before sliding past the bread and cereal for the drinks area. Only then do I glance Bobbi’s way.

The woman’s plate is full of food, as if she were a bodybuilder in training needing to bulk up. Maybe her food will distract her.

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