Page 1 of The Grump I Loathe
1
EDDIE
Iwas about to commit burrito murder.
The upside to the amount of the gameWord TripI was currently crushing on my phone was that it kept me from committing actual murder. The downside? I was burning through all of my phone’s battery, and the food linestillwasn’t moving.
I tucked my phone away and peeked around a broad shoulder, calculating my chances of making it to the front before I expired. At this rate, I wasn’t sure I’d live long enough to commit the crime.
“Next!” the cashier called, and I advanced a few glorious inches. There were three people left between me and my tortilla of cheesy goodness.
My stomach growled as I peeked around that same broad shoulder, eyeing up the Mexican food truck parked in the food hall of the San Francisco convention center for GeekCon. I only had thirty minutes (now more like twenty) between the end of my booth time, running the demo for my new solo gameAlterbot, and the “Women in Indie Gaming” panel I’d been asked to speak at.
So this was my only chance to eat. Being asked to sit on that panel had felt like a huge win considering I’d just gotten my foot in the door as a game developer on the indie circuit. The last thing I wanted to do was ruin the opportunity by passing out from the heat and low blood sugar.
I tugged on my shirt, trying to get some air between my sweaty skin and the damp material. The T-shirt was my favorite—it had a neon keyboard on the back, and the front saidCtrl+S is my Love Language. But I’d be a whole lot more comfortable in it if I was in a room with actual, functioning air conditioning.
“Next!”
Oh, thank God. We were moving again!
I pulled my phone out, checking the time. Eighteen minutes till my panel! And that included the time it would take me to actually get there through this mob.
“Next!”
Finally! There was only one guy—one very tall, broad guy in a suit—left between me and my lunch. Come to me, my sweet, burrito-y wonder. My stomach gurgled in anticipation of all the warm, gooey cheese I was about to stuff in my mouth. And the chipotle crema! I couldn’t forget that smoky, spicy deliciousness. Come on, suit guy, let me at that sauce bar!
I sized up the dude in front of me as he stepped up to the counter to order. I wasn’t usually a clothes snob, but there was just something about the structured silhouette of the suit and the subtle sheen to the smooth fabric that screamed “money.” And “pretentiousness.”
He was giving rich-guy-who-lived-off-steamed-chicken-and-quinoa energy—probably some company exec here to network with new creatives. That was good. It would likely take all of two seconds toslap his boring, low-calorie order into a tortilla, and then it was my turn.
“What can I get’cha?” the young guy behind the counter asked. “Combo A is our best deal. That comes with chips and?—”
“I’m gonna do a single chicken quesadilla,” suit guy said, interrupting the spiel.
Close enough, I thought, smirking.One side of quinoa, please.
“I want that lightly grilled though,” he said. “Definitely no char on the meat.”
I arched my eyebrow.
“Are your tortillas fresh?” he asked.
Oh, no!My face fell.Don’t be one of those guys!I didn’t have time to hang around while Picky Peter deconstructed the meal.
“Can you crisp it up on both sides? And cut it into smaller triangles,” he continued.
“Cheese?” the guy behind the counter asked.
“Yeah, I’ll do a mix, but nothing spicy. And speaking of spicy, how is the chicken seasoned? Can I sample that?”
My head dropped back as I stared at the ceiling, silently begging for him to get an emergency text message and he’d rush off. Not an emergency-emergency. I’m not that mean?—
“And absolutely no cilantro,” he added.
—Yet. I glared at his back. Any hope of avoiding the hangries was rapidly going down the drain.
“Which of these sauces are spicy?” he asked, gesturing to the row of bottles on the counter. “Because I absolutely do not want?—”
