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Show 8 cake. She carried it to the table, sat down, and ate four large pieces. One right after the other. Until the chocolate made her slightly nauseated. And still she ate on. Almost half of the whole damn cake, she noticed, washing her fingers off in the kitchen sink. But it took away that huge empty feeling. The following afternoon, a Friday, she was back at the center. The ice cream parlor and the donut shop. They were familiar. Almost home ground. She asked at both, afraid that she would be hired, relieved when she was not-the girl at the donut shop was at least a size eighteen. Hot fudge Sundays, or jelly rolls. No, she had been lucky. With the lingering smell of maple bars in her nostrils, she tried the drug store next door. The manager was in. A short, stocky man, dark-skinned, balding, with a dead cigar in his mouth. "Yes, what is it?" "I need a job," Sharon said, standing as straight as possible. She was a few inches taller than he was, which made her feel awkward. "You ever work before?" He looked her up and down, a quick glance, as he lit his cigar. "A year in stocking. And some cosmetics. At Whitman's. In Westwood." He cocked his head to one side, removing the cigar from his mouth, and again looked her up and down. Politely, but with interest. What did he see? What did he see in her? "Anything else?" he asked. |
