Blaine Sativa grows up in a family of hysteria. Her mother, a bitter woman who raised her in the remote woods of Colorado, dies shortly after Blaine's older brother Clarke is institutionalized. That fateful day after losing her family, Blaine lives...
Blaine has never been good with people. Today's job interviewee resembles a humanoid gecko making him no exception to the rule.
A pair of bifocals precariously branched across his nose reminds her of gigantic lizard eyes. The glasses are so hefty he frequently stabs his own face with his thumb to push them up. His bald head is graced with only a small patch of hair clumpy as moss.
Blaine's practiced smile strains like rubber bands about to snap into a default puzzled frown. Somehow she composes herself through exchanging of names. And neutral when he gives her the schedule.
She might have survived the entire interview if Gecko hadn't remarked, "I'm interested in the particular position you've applied for." His thin chapped lips execute a drawn-out explanation that small-chested models aren't a good investment for the company.
Blaine is seething.
The lizard-man blatantly ignores her jaw clenched so tight pliers could be required to coax her mouth open again. Gecko turns into a splotch of red when Blaine scoops a handful of candies off his desk, chucking mints at his moss-head with accuracy. She's escorted out of the store and any future employment as a model is compromised by her kryptonite temper.
Back home she scrolls idly through Facebook. Although she guiltily searched Travis Sterne his profile is set private. Usually she'd drive downtown to relax but her truck is a vampire. The trip to the nightmare interview put her well below E. Instead Blaine smokes a joint, melting into her futon then falling comatose.
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Three hours later, Blaine wakes. Out of money and weed she's tempted to stay in bed. But her stomach growls loud as a swamp monster. In the midst of preparing another round of boxed Mac and Cheese she notices a strange lump in her sink.
Using two fingers she pinches Travis's jeans. The red stains have dried into a dark matted mess. Perhaps he spilt cranberry juice on his lap but what if it's blood?
If she had anything better to do she'd have thrown the jeans away. Boredom alone convinces her to venture next door. The whole walk she keeps the pants pinched between her thumb and finger with her arm held stiffly ahead. Opting out of knocking, she drapes his jeans over the front porch railing.
After returning to her kitchen Blaine wonders idly. She hardly ever second guesses herself but feels conflicted by this decision. Did leaving his jeans on the porch mean too much or too little?
Between setting supper ingredients on the counter she glances out the window. The pants remain draped between their mobile homes like a morbid peace flag. Just focus on cooking, Blaine, or you're going to chop your fingers off.
Dicing onions is a talent. All aspects of cooking are. As a kid she watched Mom prepare meals from her favorite cooking programs. Once Blaine moved away on her own, Mom graciously passed her a baggie of index cards detailing "simple" recipes. Meatloaf shouldn't have been included.
