Megan Hart - Switch

and wipe my hands with it.

It was the only time Austin had ever apologized to me for

anything he'd ever done. I wasn't sure it meant anything

now. Not after al this time had passed.

I didn't delete the message, but I didn't cal him back,

either. Instead, I hauled my sorry ass out of bed and

stumbled to the bathroom where I peed for what felt like

an hour and brushed my teeth and puled my hair on top of

my head in a messy ponytail.

I wanted to go back to sleep, but I knew better than to

expect to be able to. I was up for the day now. My

stomach rumbled and I took my last two slices of wheat

bread from the fridge, where I kept it to prevent mold, and

popped them into my toaster oven. I needed to hit the

grocery store in the worst way, though the state of my

finances meant it would be another week of on-sale tuna

and ramen noodles rather than steak and lobster. Ah, wel.

There was nothing new about that. I'd grown up thinking

There was nothing new about that. I'd grown up thinking

Kraft shels and cheese was gourmet fare.

While my toast browned, I sifted through the pile of junk

mail I'd brought in the night before. I tossed aside a few

catalogs addressed to the former tenant. I thought of the

note I'd had yesterday, the beautiful paper and the words

written in that fine hand. What had it said to do? Make a

list of flaws and strengths? I thought of it as I ate my toast

dry because I had no butter or jam.

You wil write a list of ten. Five flaws. Five strengths.

Deliver them promptly…

From the junk drawer next to my fridge I puled a yelow

legal pad and a stub of a pencil with a point rubbed to

softness by the creation of many lists. Chore lists, mostly,

or grocery. I'd never used it to detail my flaws and

strengths.

I tapped the pencil against my lips as I thought.

Proud

Stubborn

Independent

Independent

Smart

Curious

Determined

Conscientious

That was it. As far as lists went, it didn't feel complete, but

I couldn't think of more than that. So much for the ten, I

thought as I put away the pen and paper.

And the real question was, which had I written? Flaws or

strengths? Couldn't they sometimes be both?

I looked again at the tablet on the table. It had made me

think hard about myself, though it hadn't been meant for

me. I hoped the person it was meant for had better luck.

Chapter 06

Ifinished my shopping just before noon. I had only two

smal bags of groceries, the bare minimum to get me

through until payday. I'd left a few bucks in my walet on

purpose, though, for one reason. I didn't need a large

coffee with extra cream and a gooey cinnamon bun, but I

wanted them.

Located in the building adjoining Riverview Manor, the

Morningstar Mocha teemed with people out for a caffeine

fix. A few joggers, bundled against the cold, filed travel

mugs at the smal stand in the corner holding the sweetener

packets and jugs of milk and bins of creamer containers.

And in the corner, my corner, the seat I took because it

was in the smalest table and I was usualy alone, sat my

elevator eye-fucking buddy, Mr. Mystery.

Was it synchronicity? Or serendipity? His wasn't the only

familiar face there. I spied a few people from my building,

one or two I recognized as Mocha regulars, and of course

I knew the girl behind the counter. Her name was Brandy,

and you couldn't miss her. She chewed gum like cud.

I deliberately tried not to stare at him while I ordered my

I deliberately tried not to stare at him while I ordered my

coffee and bun, but he was stil there by the time they

arrived. Stil there when I'd dumped my mug ful of sugar

and cream. He wore a white, long-sleeved shirt beneath a

black concert T-shirt and worn jeans that suited him

nicely. His hair looked as if he'd run a hand through it a

few times or just roled out of bed. He had a large mug in

front of him, stil steaming, and a plate with the remains of

a bagel slathered with cream cheese and lox. He was

staring out the glass onto the street, empty but for the

occasional weekend-traffic car cruising slowly past. In

front of him sat a pad of legal-size paper, white not yelow,

and in his left hand he held a thick-barreled pen. A worn

leather bag rested at his feet as faithful as a hound.

The lighting inside the Mocha was golden and indirect, but

late-winter bright sunshine shafted through the plate-glass

window and across his face. I wanted to stare and drink in

the fine-featured grace of him. The casual beauty. The

crooked twist of his mouth as he bit down on his lip in

concentration, the furrow of his brow. The way his hand

curled around the pen caressing the paper.

Fortunately for me, he was stil staring out the window,

absently doodling, when two people in matching tracksuits

slammed into me and knocked my coffee and cinnamon

slammed into me and knocked my coffee and cinnamon

bun al over a couple, who looked as if they hadn't yet

gone to bed, sitting at the table in front of me.

The fitness twins were very kind. They bought me new

coffee and pastry and replaced the party-kids' bagels,

soaked through by my spiled drink. They did it al with a

fanfare that smacked a bit of "look at me, what a good

person I am," but they did it. I didn't dare look at the man

by the window until al the fuss and feathers had died

down. When I did, finaly, my fresh mug was burning my

palm and my eyes had blurred from the dip in my blood

sugar. I didn't want to shove the entire bun into my mouth,

but a dainty nibble wasn't going to get the goods down my

throat and into my stomach fast enough.

He glanced over at me as I was licking icing off my mouth.

He smiled. I paused, coffee halfway to my mouth, and

smiled back.

I thought for sure he'd say helo, but maybe without the

alure of my fuck-me pumps al he could manage was the

grin. Maybe he didn't recognize me as the woman from the

elevator. Or more likely, he didn't care.

He got up, papers and pen already tucked away in his

He got up, papers and pen already tucked away in his

bag, garbage cleared from the table. He slung his arms into

a plaid flannel shirt I hadn't noticed hanging on the back of

his chair and eased the strap of his leather bag over one

shoulder. He left the Morningstar Mocha without a

backward glance, which alowed me to stare after him

without fear of being caught.

He'd left a crumpled discard to the window side of his

chair, on the floor. With a quick glance around the now-

empty coffee shop to see if anyone would notice me being

a total snoop, I vacated my seat and took the one he'd just

left. It couldn't have been warm from his ass, or at least I

shouldn't have been able to feel it if it was, but I imagined

heat. I knew I shouldn't pick up the paper, or smooth it

out in front of me. I knew, especialy, that I shouldn't read

it.

But I did, anyway.

I didn't learn the secrets of the universe. I didn't even find

out his name. He'd mostly been scribbling and doodling,

with a few chicken-scratch phrases I could read but didn't

understand here and there on the paper. Looking over it, I

should've felt dirty. I only felt disappointed. But what had I

expected, a hand-written autobiography listing his

expected, a hand-written autobiography listing his