r side.
I'll wrap the pickle separately, so it won't get soggy."

"Pickles are supposed to be soggy." He was grinning again.

"The sandwich, Patrick."

"Ah." He was altogether pleased with himself. She made the sandwich,
mumbling like a junior Ann, and at the last moment included an extra
pickle.

"There," she said. As he gave her a five dollar bill, the edge of his
palm brushed her fingers. She put the change on the counter between
them, not wanting to touch him again; she was still feeling his hand,
pleasantly hard against hers, and she wanted to go on enjoying it. "Off
you go," she said.

"Gotta put the paint on the wall. That's what Wilson says." He took the
bag and the change. "Maybe I'll see you and Amber at the Depresso."
Damn him.

"Maybe." She gave him her best Mona Lisa smile and flicked some hair
back over her shoulder. A horn honked.

"Speaking of Wilson . . . " he said. "Thanks."

He's cute, she thought. Her hand was still warm where he had touched
her. Like the ocean, his eyes darkened, the deeper she looked.

The next morning, Patrick was back. "Good sandwich," he said. He meant
it, and she felt a warm stirring. God, not a blush!

"Let's do that again." She hadn't wanted him to think of her as a
useless rich girl; now she didn't want to be Mother Earth. She opened
her mouth to speak and closed it. Confusing. Fortunately, he had turned
to the drinks cooler. She made the sandwich, including the extra
pickle, and took his money from the counter. As she reached toward him
with the change, her arm dipped and her hand rested for a moment on his
palm. "Thanks, Willow. Have to run."

"Bye." He was out the door and into an old blue pickup before she could
think of anything else to say. It wasn't me, she thought. I didn't do
that. It was my arm, like a damned dowsing rod.

Two guys came in for coffee and bagels. A steady flow of customers kept
her occupied; by noon she was over the embarrassment. But she was on
alert. At dinner she said to Amber, "My goddamn arm was out of
control." Amber clapped. "Oh, great," Willow said. "I'm groping
strangers, and you think everything's fine."

"It is fine. You just need to get laid, that's all. And how can you
call Patrick a stranger? You've known him for a month."

"Get laid--that's your solution for everything."

"No, no. It's a help; it takes the pressure off. And it's interesting,
Willow. Men are so different. Now, we're not talking babies, here."
Amber