Know Not Why: A Novel Read Online Free PDF Page B

guess, but I have no idea who the hell
had the grand idea to make it. I kind of wish I knew so I could
find and punish them. It’s like whatever crackpot designer is
responsible for that little gem went, “I’m seeing a glorious
fusion of limes and yaks! Limes! Yaks !” I’ve never really
had a serious opinion on an item of clothing, besides maybe the
apron, but this has officially earned my lifelong disrespect and
revulsion.
    She’s also wearing combat boots, which leads me
to the swift, scary realization that this is maybe someone I don’t
want to fuck with. In any sense.
    And the dancing? It’s not to any music.
The stereo’s off. She keeps mumbling stuff like “and one and two
and three and step and one and two and pelvic
thruuuust and one and two and insaaaaane ”–
    Recognition stirs in my decaffeinated, grumpy
brain. I’m not a creepy cult classic musical aficionado, but I can
recognize some Rocky Horror when I need to. Amber went through a
few months in ninth grade where she pretty much lived and breathed
all things Sweet Transvestitetastic.
    I still have no idea what to think. This is what
I get for turning the sign from ‘closed’ to ‘open’ a few minutes
early and then going into the kitchen. Homeless nutcases
invade .
    She’s so into her countertop dance routine that
she doesn’t even notice me. For a few seconds I contemplate going
over, giving her some sort of stern “I’m sorry ma’am, but customers
aren’t allowed to perform lewd acts on the counter without buying
something first” talking-to. But then I look at her – really look at her – and she’s got her eyes closed and she’s swinging her
crazy hair and her hips around, and she squeals out more lyrics,
and it’s just, it’s frightening, I’m scared, I don’t want to deal
with this. And last I saw, Arthur was still in the kitchen.
    Righto, Bossie McPhee. Time to put your man
boots on.
    Sure enough, he’s there, taking a cup of tea out
of the microwave. He doesn’t look like a broken shell of a man
anymore. In fact, he’s more like the Arthur Kraft the Second
version of ebullient: well-rested and clean shaven, with nary an
under-eye shadow in sight. I wince an inward wince of sympathy for
The Mysterious Almost-Ex. So close to freedom.
    “Hey, uh, Arthur?”
    “Is there a problem?” He turns around. He’s even
bobbing his teabag in his cup in a way that’s cheery.
    Get ready to get real glum real fast, sucker.
“Um, yeah. There’s a crazy chick on the counter.”
    But all that he says is, “Again?”
    It robs the proclamation of some serious
weight.
    “Again?” I repeat, disappointed. And worried.
“What, is this like a regular thing?”
    “Sadly, we’ve all been forced to get used to
it,” Arthur replies with a slight, wistful sigh. He takes a sip of
his tea, then cringes. “Oh, damn, still hot.” Conversationally, he
asks me, “Do you like chamomile?”
    “What?” Is this Arthur not caring? Arthur ? “Um, did you hear me? About the girl? On the
counter? Dancing?” And then, because I feel like I ought to really
convey the gravity of the situation: “ Thrusting ?”
    “Just tell her that I would appreciate it if she
didn’t,” Arthur replies, without batting a (freakishly exquisite)
lash. “I don’t know that there’s any point in bringing it up again,
but it’s worth a try.”
    “Worth a try?” I repeat disbelievingly.
    “Mmhmm.” He blows on his tea.
    Ohhhh, come on !
    “Well, I think you should talk to her,” I say,
trying to choke back my heightening levels of pissedoffstity.
“You’re the boss. She’d probably listen to you if you asked her to
leave—”
    “Hmm,” Arthur says after a few seconds of
deliberation. He is utterly unbothered. “I think you should be able
to take care of it.”
    “I don’t know if I’ve been here long enough that
I’m ready to deal with that,” I reply, trying to sound cool, like
this isn’t something I’ll fight to the death. Which I will.