Gary got there two minutes after me and found me sitting on my hands. He sat across from me in a booth, facing the light, the sun bouncing off the white metal tables outside, constricting his pupils to almost nothing. Our surroundings of used brick, bleached oak, and shiny brass rails were a soothing contrast to the beige bleakness of the lab, but it was chilly. “This could be a satellite to the morgue,” I said. “Marvellen’s always cold,” he said. “I tell her on trips if she’d just put her feet on top of the bologna we wouldn’t need the ice pack.” I laughed because he said it with such roundness to his eyes. I said, “At work I get coffee just to warm my hands—snake blood I guess.” A waiter came up with menus. “Could I have some hot tea, please?” emphasizing the t because in California when people hear tea they always think cold, don’t ask me why. Gary said, “I’m going to have the meat loaf. You?” His stubby finger mashed the menu as he looked up at me, the walrus mustache glinting golden-orange in the light.
What do You think about A World The Color Of Salt?
