Then the inevitable domino fell. One by one, people in line started to complain—some volubly, some in Shakespearean asides. ―Should have driven through,‖ Angela said. ―And miss the show? Nah.‖ The awkwardness of the mayonnaise fracas helped ease the awkwardness between himself and Mrs. Bramlett. She blurted a laugh and quickly stifled it with her palm. He saw Lily in her mother. The hair-trigger sense of humor and the easy recovery. Also, the deep-green eyes. At last a boulder-bellied man in a bursting blue-shirt and too-short striped tie joined the fray, throwing his employee under the bus. ―It‘s not his fault,‖ a sympathetic patron explained. ―He apologized a zillion times.‖ ―The customer is always right,‖ an opponent reminded the crowd. ―That‘s a crock of . . . you know what,‖ Justin said, leaning into Angela‘s ear. ―The customer is practically never right.‖ The mousy wife, erstwhile silent champion of his bravado, tugged at her husband‘s shirt and begged him to walk away. Because and only because she insisted, he let it be known, he took the new, properly-condimented burger and strode back to his booth where he took the most masculine sip of a milkshake as the act allowed. Angela patiently watched Justin eat and daintily enjoyed her own milkshake. Strawberry, because she ―likes the little chunks in her straw, its fun to suck ‗em through.‖ In the restaurant‘s parking lot, she asked if she could drive. He tossed her the keys and they fell to the ground. He picked them up and handed them over securely. She had long, piano-playing fingers that couldn‘t help but graze his hand. The coldness of the touch was shocking. For all of her fresh vitality, he had expected warmth. Angela fiddled with the signal and wiper levers and accustomed herself to the feel of the wheel. When she reached to adjust the rearview, Justin had to tell her it was no use, that it was superglued from a collision with his hard-head. For a minute, he thought she would change her mind. Maybe it had been so long since she drove a car that she didn‘t feel comfortable driving his. ―Trust me, you won‘t hurt anything but us,‖ he said. ―It‘s not that. It‘s just . . .‖ She couldn‘t say what and he couldn‘t guess what so they sat in silence for a while. He felt bad for her. ―You got this,‖ he said, eventually. ―I got this,‖ she said. She reached for the gear shift beside the steering wheel and came up empty. The Civic‘s was beside her right leg. She laughed at herself and pulled out of the space. She inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly, put the car in drive, and puttered out of the parking lot. Along the way, Justin clued her in to the pertinent quirks of the old car, occasionally apologizing for the more irritating ones. But she mastered things early and told him not to worry about it, she was better now. ―Like riding a bike, right?‖ she said, risking a glance in his direction. ―So they say.‖ ―And they usually know what they are talking about.‖ ―They usually do.‖ Justin took several opportunities to study her face in the mirror and from sideways glimpses. To take notes on the miracle, to search for empirical explanations. It was a waste of time. Miracles keep secrets well. Especially from skeptics. Before long, he realized that she was not going the right way. She was lost or confused, disoriented during internment. But he kept his mouth shut about it because far be it from him to
ASSISI | 85