Hot Off The Presses

I smiled and touched my hair, even though I knew nothing was out of place.

The restaurant was packed and we had to wait for a table. Marshall bought two Margaritas from the bar, and we stood inside the door drinking and waiting for Marshall’s name to be called.

He asked about my car. “Any more problems?”

“None at all,” I said. “Knock on wood.”

“Any new clients?”

“Kingston thinks he has a shot at a new mystery magazine,” I said. “That would be a change of pace after all the medical journals and farm titles we handle.”

We killed time like that, not discussing anything significant, until we were shown to our table. I ordered a chimichanga and Marshall opted for the fajitas Chihuahua style.

While we waited for our food, I asked how Marshall was feeling about Waco.

“I think I’m finally able to get around without asking for directions,” he said. “It’s not that Waco is all that big, it’s just that north and south aren’t where I expect them to be.”

I’d had the same problem when I’d moved to Waco for college, and I told him how long it had taken for me to figure things out. “When you spend most of your time on campus, it doesn’t really matter,” I said. “By the time I was a senior, though, I didn’t want to spend all my time on campus anymore. That’s when I started learning my way around town.”

“I felt comfortable in Chicago,” Marshall said. “Even though it’s so much bigger, it’s where I grew up.”

“I bet you don’t miss rush hour.”

Marshall laughed. “Nobody misses rush hour once they don’t have to deal with it anymore.”

Our dinner arrived and the waiter warned us about the hot plates. After he left, Marshall leaned forward and said, “Aren’t you tempted to touch the plates just to see how hot they really are?”

“I’ve burned myself three times doing that,” I admitted. “Now I believe it when they tell me that my plate is hot.”

We ate in silence for a moment and then Marshall said, “Have you ever met someone and it feels as if you’ve known them forever?”

“Once or twice,” I said. “Why?”