Page 2 of A Minute More

“Aw, come on, man. You still can’t figure it out?” Jude asks, and I shake my head, my blue eyes landing on his.

“It’ll come to me, just…not yet. Maybe I’ll find her waiting at the party.”

“Damn right you will,” Jude says and then socks me in the arm. I pretend like it hurts, laughing and messing around until Simon appears moments later, looking so fucking professional. He doesn’t look like he should be working at The Greatest Wich for minimum wage. Who knows why he’s doing this?

I mean, if I was a genius I’d be working at NASA, so I have no fucking clue why he’s here with a bunch of recent college grads with no definite plans for our future. We’re a bit like losers, to be honest. Simon just seems far above our pay grade.

“Hey, man,” I say, but I know that the greeting won’t come with a response. It never does. Jude just rolls his eyes, but I let mine linger on Simon, that perfectly shaved jaw, the way his dark lashes flutter against his cheeks. He looks a bit like a young Matt Smith fromDr. Who.

Maybe my theory isn’t wrong. Maybe he has a time machine and is really from the future. Or the past.

Maybe he’s traveled all this way and is lonely. Maybe he just needs some friends.

Maybe he doesn’t know how to converse with people who exist in this time.

Yeah, that makes more sense than the CIA at this point.

At this point, I think I’m a motherfucking genius.

We all work in muted silence, Jude leaving a few hours after the dinner rush. Simon and I are left to clean up and close the shop. The entire time, I eye him constantly, not able to divert my gaze for long. Just the way he moves is intriguing. It’s almost fluid as if he’s dancing, and yet he’s not. He doesn’t look like he’s danced a day in his life.

“There’s a party after this if you wanna come,” I blurt out when the quiet is too crushing. Simon’s eyes flick over to mine before moving back to counting the money in the register.

“I can write down the address and you could come…you know, if you’re bored.”

I feel stupid for even asking, but I do it anyway. Can’t seem to help myself. And now Simon isn’t answering and it’s making me fidget. I stuff my hands in my pockets before pulling them out and running them through my unruly hair.

“Do you go out…ever?” I ask, shoving my hands in my pockets once more and leaning against the counter. Seems I don’t know what to do with my appendages. What a waste they are. Should just chop them off…useless things.

“No.”

Well, at least he said something. Makes me feel like a goddamn king for getting a word out of him. “Well, maybe you should. Go out and meet some people. Make some friends.”

He shakes his head once. “I’m good.”

He finishes counting the money and puts it into the money bag before walking to the back office to place it in the safe. My eyes follow his movements, and I feel suddenly lacking. I’m not sure why this is the sensation I experience, but it creeps up on me anyway. Maybe he thinks I’m a loser and he has better things to do. Maybe he doesn’t want to hang out with someone like me—a mediocre jock who, instead of working in his field of study, works at a sandwich shop in town.

I know I have issues, but it’s not like I openly discuss them with people. But maybe Simon has figured me out and finds me not worth his time.

That thought follows me for the rest of the night, a niggling feeling that maybe I’m not cool enough for this dude. Maybe it’s not me who is better, that it’s not me who’s trying to help him, but rather it is him who’s trying to help me.

It’s a mind fuck and it leads to far too much drinking. Just one shot after the other, the party’s music rumbling through my numb body.

Late that night, I stumble home and fall into bed, and in my dreams, his name repeats over and over in my head.

Simon.

Simon.

* * *

I see him two days later, my hangover mostly gone and my mood far more chipper than it was two nights ago when I’d sulked and felt quite sorry for myself. When I’m not sloshed and despondent I realize that maybe I’m not so bad after all. Maybe I’m not the loser I think I am.

Mostly.

My eyes catch on the man I dreamed about, and I run a nervous hand through my hair once more. I’m sure it’s sticking straight up right now, but I don’t even fucking care because my eyes are glued to him.

Simon looks pristine as usual in his khaki pants and his blue button-down shirt. He even has a skinny leather belt on. My eyes swivel down to his shoes, and I see the shiny leather wink back up at me.

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