Aftertaste - Meredith Mileti [94]
“Hey,” he says. “I thought that was you. Wasn’t sure though. You look different in clothes. How’s the sink holding up?”
“Great, thanks,” I stammer, remembering the rapidly dissipating bubbles, my hastily wrapped towel, and the humiliating Pippi Longstocking hairdo. I feel a blush creep up from the collar of my shirt to stain my face.
Ben is holding a bag of biscotti and a paper cup of coffee. With his foot, he moves Chloe’s wooden highchair over so that there is room to sit. “Do you mind?” he asks, hooking another chair with his foot and dragging it over to the table.
“No, not at all,” I tell him, not really sure if I mean it. I hand Chloe her board book. He opens the bag of biscotti and holds it out to me. “They’re cornmeal. My favorite. Wouldn’t think a cornmeal cookie would be good, but I love ‘em. Can’t get enough.”
I take one from the bag, break it in half, and offer Chloe a piece.
“Do you live around here?” I ask him.
“No. Bloomfield, not far, but I’m working around the corner,” he says, removing the plastic lid of his coffee and swiping at the foam with the tail end of his biscotti. “I’m a sub in the new loft development on Smallman Street. You know, the pickle factory? Those lofts are going to be beautiful, but I swear I can still smell vinegar. Must be psychological. All the guys think I’m nuts.”
Ben reaches into the bag for another biscotti. His hands, I notice, are small and neat with short, trimmed nails. They’re the sort of hands you might expect to see on a musician, or a teacher, someone accustomed to using his hands for more delicate purposes. They seem too fine for the rest of his body and are unusually clean, given the type of work he does.
I feel as if I should say something about his aunt, who is, after all, the only real connection we have, but what is there to say? Instead, I ask him about the lofts.
“Do a lot of people live around here?”
“Some. More than there were six months ago. We did another property last year, further up the street, the Cigar Lofts. They’re all sold.”
“Did they smell like tobacco?”
Ben wads up the now empty biscotti bag and tosses it into the wastebasket. He appears to seriously consider my question, looking up at the ceiling as if trying to summon an olfactory memory. He finally shakes his head. “Nope. Can’t say that they did.” He gives me a sideways glance, trying to figure out if I’m making fun of him.
“I’ve always wanted to live in a loft, but in New York you can’t touch them.” I’m not sure why I’ve told Ben this.
“If I had some money, I’d buy one, for investment. I think they’re really going to take off. You ought to come and see them. If you have time to come now, I’ll give you a tour.”
I look at my watch.
“You have somewhere to be?” he says, the barest trace of a smirk on his face. Now it’s my turn to wonder if he’s making fun of me.
“Well, no, actually Chloe and I are just having lunch at Koko’s.”
“The Caribbean place? Is it any good? I pass it every day and think I should go in and give it a try. I’m not totally sure what Caribbean food tastes like, but what the hell, it looks interesting.”
“I don’t know. I’ve never been. I’m actually writing something about it.” I’ve told him this just in case he really was making fun of me. Fiona has probably already told him that all I do is lie around the house, guzzling brandy.
“What are you writing?”
“Well, it’s sort of a review. I’m working on a piece for the Post-Gazette Food section.”
“Wow. You mean like the Nibbler, the reviewer in the paper?” He seems surprised and impressed. “Aunt Fi didn’t mention that. That’s really cool.”
“Well, it’s sort of a test piece.” Now I feel ridiculous.
After an awkward silence, Ben says, “Feel like some company? I’m waiting on some fixtures, and the delivery won’t be until after one, so I’ve got time.” His eyes flash, and he smiles at Chloe, giving her a chuck under her chin. “Besides, it’s no