Once we close, Dolores locks up and takes the register out to count in the back. She says that she can't be disturbed because if she miscounts and has to count from the beginning, I'll be the one working through a pile of pennies. So I do my best not to disturb her.

     This means any problems I face go to Dres. Any help I need comes from Dres. And the more time it takes to finish cleaning up gives me more time with Dres. So I do my best to work as slowly as I can get away with.

     Dres usually gets the kitchen together first and finishes before I do; then he joins me to get the tables wiped down, the chairs turned over, and floors cleaned.

     I wait for the moment he comes in with a towel draped over his shoulder, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. "Where are we at?" he asks. He always asks this.

     I respond in a forcefully casual tone, "I cleaned the displays, washed the coffee machines out, and I just restocked the cabinets." I gesture to the floor where the tables remain, untouched. "I was just about to wipe down the tables."

     Dres nods, but doesn't say anything. At this point, I don't really expect him to. I watch him as he goes to the supply closet and grabs a bottle of bleach. I rush to a table and get started before he comes back.

     He doesn't ever talk when we clean together, but I'm looking to change that. I always try to have conversations with him, but he's particularly good at shutting those down.

     I give it the old college try, saying, "So my friend was raving about the salted pecan fudge cupcakes today. I think she'd buy stock in it if she could."

     I don't really expect him to say anything because Dres doesn't really say anything. But he surprises me, answering abruptly, "Tell her thank you."

     Tell her thank you. Halston. My friend. He knows my friend is a girl. In any other world that'd mean nothing, but this is Dres. Just earlier today he was acting like he didn't know I went to school. But now I know he does notice me.

     I'm elated. I shouldn't be. It's no big deal. Halston and Grace come here every day during my shifts. But, still, he noticed. That's a big deal.

     "So," I say. "Did you go to culinary school?"

     Dres responds in his usual brusque fashion, "No."

     That's it. As if that's all that's required of him. Which it is, because he's answering my question. But then he's also being so intrinsically Dres. He gives no follow-up.

     "Where'd you learn to bake?"

     I wait for Dres to say something but he doesn't, not at first. I realize quickly this is not a good question. I've learned that what Dres doesn't want you to know he won't tell you. Which really sucks because a symptom of liking Dres is desperately wanting to know everything about him.

     I can't help but wonder if someone he loves (loved?) taught him to bake. If he'd wake up late to the smell of banana rum cupcakes being baked in his kitchen by the woman he'd gone to bed with. She'd be wearing his tee shirt and it'd run right to the under curve of her ass. He'd like that and stand quietly in the doorway, amused, watching her.

     Clearing my throat, I ask, "So did you just move here?"

     "Why do you think I just moved here?"

     "Well, I've never seen you around here before."

     "So then you know I've just moved here."

     I roll my eyes. He really doesn't get how conversations work. "Where'd you move from?"

     "I was traveling."

     "That's cool. Yeah I've never been out of the country before. I've been to a lot of major cities, though. Like New York and Chicago. I really like San Francisco. Oh, and Pittsburgh. Love that city."

     He says nothing. No questions. Like, "What's there to love about Pittsburgh ?" So I can say, "Oh well, one of my favorite shows took place there." And then he'd ask, accordingly, "What show?" And I'd say, "Queer as Folk." And he'd say, "Oh you're gay?" And I'd say, "Temporarily yeah." And I'd laugh. He probably wouldn't get my joke but at least we'd be getting somewhere.

     But instead we're getting nowhere. The shop is going places, though. We've got most of the tables wiped down now.

     I ask, "You ever been?"

     He goes, "Where?"

     I stop wiping to stare at his back. Is he even listening to me? "Pittsburgh."

     "No."

     "Oh, well, it's really cool." Come on. Anything. Something. Maybe tell me what your favorite city is. Nope. Yeah. Just silence. Solid. "So...how long did it take you to get all of those tattoos?"

     "What?" He looks up and I quickly go back to wiping.

     "Your tattoos...? When did you start getting them?"

     "A few years ago."

     "How many do you have?"

     "I've lost count."

     "Wow, that many huh." I laugh. He doesn't.

     This conversation <<< everything else in the entire world.

     "You don't have a favorite, do you?" I don't even know why I'm asking because he probably doesn't.

     At first, he's quiet. I look up, curious if he's just ignoring me or what. He has moved across the floor and is standing so close to me now I have to catch my breath. I immediately regret my question as he lifts his arm between us and we both stare down.

     There are several iconic figures on his arm. Some I recognize, but most I don't. "So the whole arm or?" He glares at me. "I like the Morrissey one. The Smiths is my shit."

     He flinches or balks or something, looking at me weirdly. His expression kind of says Really? Like god forbid me and Dres have some common interest.

     "Grew up on John Hughes movies. It was inevitable." I shrug. "So what's going on on your other arm? I noticed it's all Dalí paintings."

     He lifts his other arm between us. "You know Dalí."

     "Studied him at school."

     "Hm."

     "I'm guessing you don't just let anyone do your tattoos, huh?" He shakes his head, moving back towards the table he was cleaning. I pick up my towel and move to the next one. "Did you get them while you were traveling?"

     He surprises me then, ignoring my question to ask, "Can I ask you something?"

     "Yeah," I say entirely too enthusiastically.

     "Is it just you at home?"

     I nod though he's not looking at me, focused on cleaning the tables. "Yeah, and my mom."

     "Your dad?" he asks and there's a level of curiosity I'm not used to hearing from Dres.

     I swallow on a dry throat and decide whether to be honest or not. I want Dres to be honest with me so I offer him the same courtesy. "My mom kicked him out a few years ago." The statement sucks the air right out of the room. I find myself rambling on. "He's an alcoholic. Always has been so that's not really why she did it, I guess."

     Dres is hesitant when he asks, "Then why'd she do it?"

     I say, "He didn't really like me very much. Still doesn't, I imagine."

     That does it. The conversation sinks into silence. Drowns in it, really. And I just don't know what to say to help it. Not really sure if I even want to.

     "What year are you again?" Dres asks breaking the silence, snapping it in half like it weighs nothing.

     "Senior," I say quieter than I originally was.

     "Have you decided what you want to do after school?"

     "Well, my goal is to get a sport's scholarship for college. Doesn't really matter where. Somewhere close, I guess, so I can still be around for my mom and stuff."

     "What sport?"

     "Swimming."

     "Your season starts soon, then, huh?"

     "Yeah, I gave your — Dolores a, uh, copy of my swim meet schedule. I know that it's inconvenient but—."

     "It's fine," he says and there's a wisp of warmth in his voice. Like he wants to accommodate me because he appreciates having me around or something. Okay, maybe that's farfetched.

     "Okay," I respond quietly, grinning to myself. Then I ask, "Why did you want to know if it was just me at home?"

     Dres pauses. "You talk a lot." He doesn't say it to be funny but I still laugh. It's true.

     I ask, "Do you have siblings?"

     He doesn't talk if he can help it and I can't decide what this means about his childhood. Maybe he's the youngest of six and was always overlooked so he just doesn't say anything. Maybe he's an only child like me and being alone had the opposite effect.

     "A younger sister. Amelia." This surprises me, somehow. I can't imagine Dres with a younger counterpart. I want to meet her. To see if she's anything like him. If she'll shed some light on the mystery that is my boss.

     "Does she live with your — Dolores?"

     I've finished all the tables and am looking at Dres now. He finishes up the table and then looks up at me. He does that thing where his head is still tipped downwards but he's glancing up and some hair is falling across his forehead. It is so fucking sexy that I have to force myself to look away.

     "No, she goes to a film school in New York."

     "Oh that's pretty cool."

     Dres glances at the watch on his wrist, returning to an upright stance. It's safer to look at him now but not by much. "So listen, it's getting late. I can finish up here, why don't you head home?"

     I nod. "Yeah, yeah, okay. Sounds good."

     It's a bit disheartening that he's sending me packing before we've finished up everything for closing. As if I'm not being productive enough for him and it's not worth paying me.

     I try to reason that maybe he's just concerned that I'll be up all night studying and doing homework, which is probably true. I've been getting into bed later and later; it's not helpful when I have to get up early every day for swim.

     I go to clock out, say good night to Dolores, and then head outside for my car. By the time I get home, eat some food, and finish my homework I'm delirious from lack of sleep. As I sink into bed, I can't help replaying the whole conversation with Dres.