Page 11 of Werewolf Heart

“Wanna order a couple more pints?”

“Sure. On you this time?”

“As I’ve so eloquently told you, you’re not getting any free beer from me.”

“Actually, if my memory serves me right, I did buy you three pints in a row. Yeah. About a month ago, when you finally watched the finale of Game of Thrones and you were inconsolable. I had to practically beg you to get out of your pyjamas and let the sun see you—it had been that long.”

She lets out a frustrated huff. “First off, if you liked good storytelling and satisfying character development, you’d have been as equally distraught.”

“Agreed.”

“Second off, how in the hell did you remember that? Is that another cool werewolf side-effect I was oblivious to?”

“Hey! My memory was quite alright before.”

“Rob,” she says so seriously, so grave, it feels like Sara is about to tell him he’s had a secret inoperable tumour this whole time. “You had an awful awful memory. I had to come to your job—four times in a row that one week, I might add—because you kept forgetting your keys. Every single time! They were right there by the bowl near the door and you just forgot them. I was actually concerned for you at some point. I thought it was dementia.”

“I— It was allergy season!”

She laughs. “What does that have anything to do with it?”

“Allergies affect everything in my life!”

“You just don’t want to admit how bad it really was.”

“Fine! You were my one and only salvation, Sara. There. You happy?”

She smiles and it hits him right in the chest. “Very.”

The tense environment dissipates with their conversation. Sara laughs and slaps his shoulder and it makes him feel all giddy inside.

But his nose itches.

A cigarette cloud forms behind him, it makes him nauseous—gag, really—and his nostrils flare with the anxiety which reeks off Sara.

“Sara, that you?” A man sneers behind Robert. “’Course it is. How you been? Changed your number, did you? I kept calling you about a stolen Tupperware, the blue round one? You remember. My mum gave it to me when you first moved in. You have to have it, right? Who else would be as petty.”

Robert moves his chair to get between them.

“How about you back off,” he says, as politely as one can when all you want to do is rip their head off. “She doesn’t want to talk to you.”

God, the scent is worse up close.

Tom is a man with a bad haircut, who wears cheap cologne and messy clothes. Yet, he’s not unattractive. He has the sort of smile that catches you off guard, a face which appears sweet and honest. But Robert knows what’s under that baby face. And it isn’t anything good. He really wants to rip his head off.

“That so, uh?” His laugh sounds bitter. “Didn’t think you’d turn into the kind of girl who’d let a man speak for her, Sara.”

“Oh, I’m not,” she says, jaw tight. “Rob is doing me a favour, really. I’m pretty sure if I spoke with you for more than five minutes, I’d say some pretty unsavoury things.”

“So mean,” Tom responds, still laughing. “Rob, is it? Fuck. Look at that. You move fast.”

“I dumped your ass a year ago.”

“And you stole my fucking Tupperware, too.”

“You sure haven’t changed,” she scoffs. “And I didn’t steal anything. It’s probably under your sink where you used to throw all your shit anyway.”

“Now, that’s a bit harsh, isn’t it?”

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