March 1
“I’ve got this,” he says, handing the clerk a gift card. “Same for me, please. Why don’t you go find that table,” he says to me. “I’ll be right over.” Dumbly, I shift out of line and sit at a table, near the door, facing away from the exit.
I suppose that if I had seen the Godfather recently, I would have picked the side facing the door. The problem with that is a little obvious, once you think about it. See, facing the exit means you put the table between you and the door. Great for spotting people coming in, possibly to give you twice your daily recommended allowance of vitamin lead. But if you want to make a quick exit? Not so much. You have to go past too much, most notably the person you’re talking to. Here, with my back to the door, I can slip out of my chair and be gone if Reynolds decides to put the moves on me.
He comes by a minute or so later, and slides a cup towards me. “Straight from the barista,” he says. “I know you’re notoriously paranoid. I didn’t put anything in it, I swear.”
“All the same, I’ll take yours,” I say, reaching across the short table and taking his cup. I sniff it just in case; it smells normal.
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