Page 4 of Wrong Place Perfect Time

The only sound I can hear until he speaks again is me swallowing hard.

“That’s no way to treat our guest,” he croons, a wide smile making his whole appearance seem friendly in an instant.

But there’s still something in his eyes that makes me feel a level of alarm. Like something here just isn’t quite right.

It's a downtown restaurant with enough people sitting around to make it look like lunchtime, but there’s not a single plate of food.

The older man’s eyes scan me intently and settle on the pink eviction slip in my hand, reminding me not to be so judgmental and stick to the reason I walked in here in the first place.

“I’m here about the help wanted sign,” I announce, trying to sound as confident as I can but unable to hold my nerve to look the older man right in the eye for too long.

“Come, sit,” he says softly, keeping his friendly face on but shooting the younger girl a hostile look, making her disappear as quickly as she came in through the swinging doors.

The rest of the tables get back to murmuring in low voices, and someone lights a cigarette.

I’m also acutely aware that I’m the only female in the whole room now, making it feel smaller and warmer. Like someone’s just turned up the heat past being comfortable or even normal.

I stand by the table while the old man scans me again, from my toes to the top of my head.

“You work in a restaurant before?” he asks, his smile fading and his voice becoming colder to match his eyes.

I feel my head nodding, but my mouth is so dry that I can’t speak anymore.

“Sit,” he says again, an order this time. Not an invitation.

A single glance at someone else across the room has them getting up and going over to the door.

The sound of the lock snapping shut and the ‘closed’ sign being flipped doesn’t surprise me as much as it should.

The same man is quick to remove the dusty-looking ‘Help Wanted’ sign, which he brings over to the table, murmuring into the old man’s ear in a servile manner.

Something I can’t quite make out, but the old man nods and dismisses him with a subtle wave of his hand.

The old man studies the sign for a while before looking at me again as I slide quietly into the wooden seat in front of me.

“An old sign,” he rasps in a dry tone. “We… Myfamilyonly just took over this place,” he explains, letting the cardboard slide from his fingers before he flicks dust from them.

I watch it sway midair before it glides another moment, finally slapping itself face down onto the floor, which I notice is bare cement.

Maybe they’re redecorating?

Faded and still damp patches from scrubbing, the subtle yet familiar smell of bleach hits my senses as I briefly look over the wide expanse of the floor beneath us.

Every part of me is starting to click that whatever’s really going on here has nothing to do with restaurants or help wanted.

And it especially had nothing to do with me before I walked into this place.

But the old man’s eyes twinkle some, letting me know that might’ve just changed.

“Who’s your landlord?” he asks me bluntly, jutting his chin at the crumpled pink slip still partially balled up in my hand.

My face flushes, and I feel nothing but anger toward this guy all of a sudden.

I mean, who does he think he is?

I open my mouth to tell him so, to let him know it’s none of his damned business while planning to get up and leave.

But I surprise myself by giving the name, and despite holding them back for so long, I feel the tears flooding my eyes.

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