Tinderbox, pt 8
Rosie stared up the TV screen in horror. Eight months. Eight months in New York and her life was suddenly unravelling all around her.
She turned, seeing Marshall by the doorway. How wonderful that he’d been there to witness the glass smashing; her mouth opening and closing like a fish left out of water for too long.
He crossed to her, tiny fragments of glass crunching under his heavy work boots. She looked up into his blue, blue eyes and wondered how it felt like days, not hours, since she’d stood under a hot spray with him, touched him intimately, heard the catch in his breath as he came.
“Are you okay?” he cupped her elbows. Rosie glanced around. No one was looking at them; everyone still engrossed in the news story told by the classically pretty anchor on the screen.
Suddenly the news finished and just like that, someone pressed an invisible PLAY button on everyone in the diner.
“Rosie! Jesus, you okay?” Her fellow server, Arlo, came over with a dustpan and broom. “What happened?”