Winners Don't Have Bad Days (Watty 2020 Winner, Romance)

5. #CunningPlan, October 2017

Joy... Mike could only describe the feeling as pure joy when he lifted his head and saw Daya rapping on the library's glass door with her knuckles. A few early birds came in to put in a workout before work, but they all hurried past his fishbowl with books. Daya stopped by when he didn't expect it at all. She had dropped him off an hour ago, materializing by his side after parking the Hyundai SantaFe to hold his bag while he fumbled with the keys and the crutches.

"To what do I owe the pleasure?" He rehearsed the line while he lumbered to the door, but he had forgotten it, lost it in the actual pleasure of seeing her cheeks crisp from the bracing wind, and her mouth parted by the efforts of jogging. A small portion of his brain that remained functional at the sight of her, had cleverly deduced the reason for visiting: she was holding the thermos with green juice.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I must have forgotten it on the counter," he said at the same time as she said, "I returned home to switch the laundry, and found it on the counter."

His fingers connected to hers when he took the cold container from her hands because he was looking at her face and grinning, instead of paying attention to the exchange.

He would have probably blocked the public access to the library long after she had chirped have a good one and took off into the vibrating den of fitness below, if he didn't notice his boss, Carol, coming in. With a regretful sigh, he returned to his desk, berating himself for being a dunce.

When he'd finally taken a sip of Daya's healing smoothie, it had disappointed him. It tasted nothing like joy. The best thing about it was the memory of her chilled fingers. Not that it tasted bad, per se, it was just that the tangy aftertaste of everything he had ingested so far made him yearn for bread. A crusty bread, but not sourdough, he had enough of sour. Just a plain French baguette, the epitome of the simple pleasures in life. Neutral in flavor, yes, with the divine texture and the aroma of the ovens.

It was almost lunchtime by then. He scrolled through the personal-interest stuff on his phone to distract himself from the food-dreams.

"Since when do you take an interest in figure skating, Michael?"

He startled and looked up. Good thing he liked Carol, and Carol liked him. It would have been embarrassing if someone else caught him.

But Carol was all right. She took to the middle years well, not grasping after youth like a drowning pirate after flotsam, did not even cover her mostly salt curls with dye, but compensated with extra layers of scarlet lipstick. She was plump and giggly, and wore the golf-ball-sized fake pearls like they were fake, and she did not care.

When he grew up, he wanted to be a male variant of her, a comfortable bookworm cocooned in the library, cooing to the toddlers over the picture books, throwing benign glances at the head-phoned teens while they bent over laptops and textbooks in the glass-encased quiet space, or trying to guess what treasures those entering the library would carry out in their tote bags.

Today, after the prerequisite number of consolatory oh, no and you should have taken a couple more days..., she put him on the front desk duty where he could sit on a high stool all day. She came to check on him once in a while, ready to send him home, particularly during the lull, say between lunch and the after-school rush. It was obtrusive, but sweet.

"Sport history is—" Mike started, but Carol cut him off with an understanding smile.

"Uh-huh. It sure is riveting. And the young lady that dropped off the thermos? The vaguely familiar looking one? What's her name again?"

One thing about Carol, she read a lot of cozy mysteries, so the attitude of the home-grown sleuth must have rubbed off. And there he thought she'd come in just after Daya had left.

The response popped out of his mouth uncontrollably, like a stone out of a sprung catapult. "Daya Dhawan. I... I was just trying to figure out how well she did, and it did not feel polite to ask."

Carol tsked. "So you resorted to snooping around the net, young man?"

"Something like that... but her professional page is almost empty."

Carol glanced at his phone. "Hmm. She was in the Junior Grand Prix a few years ago... but didn't make it on the international stage as a senior."

"Senior?"

Carol shook her head, chuckling. "Not the best word choice, I know, but that's what they call it. What this means, Mike, is that the lady did well, but not well enough to earn her living with skates. I don't follow the nationals, but if you dig through the net, you could probably find more mentions of her at the Skate Canada's site."

Mike gave Carol an ingratiating smile. Getting into her good graces was a part of his plan, and this unexpected strategic opening was a godsend. "You're full of surprises, Carol. I wouldn't have pegged you for a sports fan. You're made for the flights of poetic fancy, and high drama."

Which the sport probably provided... but Carol was an old hand in taking compliments.

"If not I, then who?" She pressed plump hands with carefully trimmed nails to her navy-clad bosom. Each finger sported at least one ring. "Figure skating is for the athletes' parents and the little old ladies sighing wistfully about being so young and so gorgeous."

"Ah... yes, yes, I see that." Now, for the important part, and let it come as non sequitur. "What I meant, when you get out for lunch, could you pick a burger or two for me?"

She pointed at the smoothie. "And the food that the young lady so graciously delivered?"

"It makes a wonderful snack, Carol, but I need red meat. I'll drop from exhaustion without a burger."

Mike's mouth watered when he said burger. The word itself was as comforting as the smoky meat, still hard enough to chew, but soft enough to forget the chewing in the indulgence. The plebeian burn of mustard mixed with ketchup. From there on, its bright, childishly bright sweetness dominated his imagination. No wonder children wanted ketchup on everything, no wonder the adults turned to it when they grew weary of their subdued existence.

Then there were onions, fried to the point they became like the Vikings for the modern day crowd, zesty, exciting, no longer the source of tears.

Toasted sesame seeds on the bun, meat, ketchup and onions—the burger screamed from the playground of the senses to him, "I am what I am, love me!"

Mike yearned to pick the brat up, close his eyes and savor happiness.

It's just getting a little protein in, not a horrible cheat. Just one square meal a day, and he'd obey Daya's every prescription otherwise. If they ever argued about it, he could bring it up... No, no, I couldn't.

As he had expected, Carol inserted herself into the conspiracy with gusto. She squinted at him in Inspector Columbo's good-natured, yet penetrating fashion. "You like her, don't you?"

He spread his arms in a surrender gesture. "I do."

"And you're lying to her. You'll get burned, Michael." Carol shook her head regretfully.

"I'm not that fragile," he whispered to her retreating back.