The emails continue between Edgar and Tonya on a frequent if not daily basis. At no point does he ever mention doing anything socially with her again, nor does she. Until a handful of weeks have gone by and out of the blue it’s 2:30 in the afternoon on a Friday, and she dials his office for whatever reason, in seemingly a giddy mood. Says she’s getting off at four herself, it’s a gorgeous fall day et cetera, and wondering if he wouldn’t want to meet for happy hour somewhere.

Part of him thinks he should blow her off, so as not to appear too eager. What kind of lowlife wouldn’t already have plans for a Friday night? But then he stops to consider they’ve already wasted enough time, it sounds fun, who cares. As the hipster district lies roughly halfway between their two stores, they both agree this would make the most natural destination, preferably a place with a patio. He is just about to suggest Johnson Street Tavern, when she interrupts.

“Anywhere but Johnson Street Tavern. I hate that place!”

Okay then. They will eventually settle upon the Meteorite Cafe, which he’s never been to and doesn’t know anything about. It turns out this is a vaguely space themed bar — the word cafe basically all but meaningless nowadays — which lacks any sort of patio, although it does feature some dude strumming an acoustic guitar by the window, dressed like maybe an 1890s blacksmith, even at this early hour. To an audience of five, plus the bartender.

Conversing with this chick is definitely a bit strange, there’s no doubt about it. Should he really be surprised about this, coming from someone he met at the Healthy Hippie Market? Even one who makes continual wisecracks herself about said hippies, be it shopper or employee or both? Maybe not. But then again, conversation never stalls out at any point, so this is one small yet key victory to rally around. It just lurches and zigzags in bizarre, unpredictable fashion. Although in many respects, maybe this is better.

“Do you ever wonder if you’re superficial?” she asks him early on, unprovoked. They’ve just sat down with their draft peers and she’s peering over the top of her raised glass, her sparkling blue eyes inspecting his.

She isn’t saying this, however, as some kind of pointed jab aimed at him. Rather, is already wondering this about herself, and curious as to whether he’s in the same boat. The best Edgar can offer, though, which he is aware might be something of a reach, is that no, he hasn’t ever thought this, but he realized a long time ago that the things he wants out of life are a little unusual, at least as far as other people consider them, and that they often think of him as superficial. And Tonya nods at this, as though accepting it as a valid answer, possibly even taking something useful from it.

Regarding her, though, while admittedly what he’s seen is a small sample size, he doesn’t have any concerns, not in this department. In his experience the percentage which a person rambles on about herself is a handy gauge for ballparking this. And she’s all over the map conversationally, touching on a million different subjects, very little of it directly about her life. She bounces from mentioning her mom is a performer at the local Renaissance Festival to enthusiastic rundowns of her CD collection — no hipster she, has not jumped on the vinyl bandwagon — to inquiring about his musical tastes, to admitting that, even while convinced that most hippie mumbojumbo is unmitigated nonsense, she did plonk down fifty bucks for an EPFX session at Southside once, after a friend talked her into it.

“Oh really,” Edgar chuckles, though possessing not the first clue about this subject, “how did that go?”

“Eh, she told me a bunch of stuff I already knew…”

“What, like, leading question, palm reading type stuff she picked up on?”

“…probably…but then, yeah, like, suggested I take some olive leaf extract. That was pretty much the extent of it.”

This reminds him of a recent conversation he had with the EPFX lady, who seems really sweet, if a smidge on the kooky side, like a grandma you suspected was secretly a benign witch. Deciding what to share concerning one’s coworkers is always a thorny topic. For example he has not mentioned Corey’s edict that he refrain from speaking to Zaire Patterson — even though it’s possible Tonya doesn’t know who that is — and is unlikely to, unless for some bizarre reason was asked a specific question about this. That scenario, he feels, is permissible, as is merely repeating conversations, without issuing judgment upon them or the person speaking these soundbites.

“Yeah, she said, scientists think time is speeding up, by as much as twenty percent a year! If this continues, I’m gonna explode! No wonder I can’t get caught up!”

He thinks Tonya is going to spit out her beer laughing about this one. And, true, he is laughing himself watery eyed, too, which he supposes is some form of passing judgment, however obliquely. But hey, they are only human. And he is the first to concede that for all he knows, maybe he is the crazy one, for not believing such a thing.

This topic leads into a minor scientific discussion, and from here she is sighing over books she’s never gotten around to reading, before giggling and mentioning that she loves the way he pages people over the intercom, even offering up a little demonstration: “grocery — line one thank you, line one thank you…”

“Eh, I picked that up from this old hillbilly I used to work with, at this other company. I always thought it was hilarious.”

“It’s cute,” she says.

Then they are circling back to music, when a light bulb goes off — the guitarist is on break, so there’s some temporary filler tuneage playing overhead — and they suddenly recall their debate about the Al Jarreau song. Both pull up the internet browser on their phones and confirm at once the indisputable truth: Tonya was correct, that was actually Bobby Caldwell.

“How does it feel to be WRONG!?” she taunts, smiling in satisfaction.

“It so rarely happens…I’m completely demoralized…,” he jokes.

After this, the first true pause in their outing occurs. Tonya glances at the time on her phone and sighs, “I should probably get going. Although…,” she smiles in slightly more crooked fashion now, “I am kinda messed up, sadly enough. I should really call a cab…”

“Well, I mean…I could drive you home, maybe. Where do you live?”

“Aren’t you kinda messed up, too?”

“We’ve been here…,” he consults his phone now, “two and half hours, and I’ve had two beers.” Concluding with his own little smirk, a wisecrack as much as anything else, he quips, “I think I’ll be okay.”

Tonya nods and says, “that’s true. I think beer hits guys a little differently for some reason.”

“Well, you are just a little thing,” he says.

At this, her smile undergoes at least its third recent transformation, clearly pleased by what most would consider a compliment, and qualifies this remark. “A little thing, but with a big butt and some big…well, whatever.” Laughing, she adds, “I probably shouldn’t say that. But yeah, you remember me telling you I live kinda close to the northend Trapper Jack’s, right? If you don’t mind.”

“Sure, that’s basically right on my way anyhow. But what about your car?”

“Eh, I’ll worry about that later,” she says, waving it off, “I’ve got plenty of friends around here with nothing else to do.”

From here, there is basically no good way to go without running slam into some ridiculous traffic, apart from occasional brief dips into less trendy, more inner-city regions. Much of their drive is across Willie T. Franklin, which pretty much everyone around here refers to as WTF Boulevard. Crawling their way across town to the burgeoning northeast outerbelt, they hit just about every red light, though the music is thankfully good and Tonya talks up a storm throughout. Eventually, after passing Trapper Jack’s and the university district, they wind up at another monstrous intersection, and she points to an apartment complex on the corner.

“That’s me,” she says, nodding at it, a fashionable looking if not quite brand-new redbrick network of single levels, in the shadow of this massive church.

“This looks pretty nice,” he allows, as they turn left and then a quick right into the complex.

“Eh, it’s alright. Traffic sucks but it’s not too expensive for the…ooh, hey, I was gonna say, I think I’ve got some vodka. Although as far as mixing it…well, hmm, I’m sure there’s…”

“Yikes!” Edgar says, chuckling, “I don’t know. It’s not even dark yet!”

“What?” she taunts again, turning to stare Edgar down and smirking in much the same manner she had after proving him wrong on the song trivia tidbit, “you can’t handle one drink now?”

“Uhhhhh…,” he groans, as they have parked in front of what she’s saying is her place. He already knows what he’s going to say, but drags it out anyway, as though debating things as she twists his arm, “well, I guess one drink wouldn’t hurt. We could check out…didn’t you say you have a huge CD collection?”

“Man, it is awesome out!” Tonya observes, as they step out of his vehicle and begin traipsing across the lawn. She has somehow acquired a piece of chewing gum, though Edgar hadn’t noticed this development, and pops a bubble now. Truth be known however he is understandably paying far more attention to her earlier point, whereby Tonya described her own body shape. While she leads the way, he has at last an ideal opportunity for observing her appearance, the clothing atop that shapely frame: a tight fitting plain pink tee shirt, almost the same color as that bubble, in fact, and her standard jean shorts, with the tennis shoes and socks that a job on her feet all day would surely require. As for him, he’s glad also in his customary on-the-job uniform, jeans and a polo shirt.

Even though she lives directly ahead, second unit from the end, directly underneath some tall trees bordering that massive church, they for some reason circumvent the building to come in from behind it. She says she’s usually in a habit of doing so, but can’t really explain why. As they make their way, Edgar observes the wrought iron fence separating this complex from the church, its black tips sharp as spears, and then the tiny if charming back patio they soon enter. Towering wooden fences, painted beige, divide each unit, and as for hers, there are a couple of low-slung lawn chairs, also wooden, a table, and half dead looking planters everywhere.

She unlocks the sliding glass door and flings it open, as they duck through some heavy vinyl blinds and enter her kitchen. “Okay, so, yeah…this is it…,” she sighs, drawing up short as they examinine it for just a second, before she motors on across the room, toward the cabinets. “Now, about that vodka…”

Edgar cackles and says, half question, half joke, “would you say you’re a heavy drinker, now?”

“Oh no. Not at all,” she insists, shooting a glance back at him, “that’s why I said I think I have some vodka. But every now and then, you know…stereo’s in the living room, by the way…”

Taking her cue, he continues ahead. This apartment reminds him of his maternal grandparents’, it’s true, with virtually the same layout, down to and including an opening between the kitchen and the living room, just above the sink. Handy for conversing in situations just like this. Upon entering, he’s confronted by a massive entertainment center, with countless, differently shaped square chambers most likely some kind of IKEA particle board number, stuffed to the gills with books, a television set, propped up picture frames, plants, finally the expected stereo and reams of compact discs. So many compact discs that he’s paralyzed for just a moment, until spying a Blind Melon greatest hits case, flopped open beside the stereo. This gives him a hunch and he simply hits the power button, then presses play. No need to get fancy and overcomplicate matters here.

“Ooh! Blind Melon, good choice,” Tonya says from the kitchen, and he realizes she has climbed up onto the counter to peer into a higher shelf of the cabinet.

“Yeah, can’t go wrong…,” he agrees, squatting now as he examines a bottom row. “But Faith No More’s greatest hits? And it’s a double album? What is that, one song per disc?”

“Hey now! I like me some Faith No More.”

“Yeah, well, you go right on ahead with that.”

Following continued clanking around and muttering, Tonya eventually extracts a bottle, and holds it up to the light, swirls it around, saying, “well, it’s not vodka, but I’ve got…whiskey?”

“You sure about that? You don’t sound too sure.”

“It’s whiskey,” she announces, confident as she jumps back down with it. Then, wonders aloud, “now, I know I’ve got some Sprite I think. Is whiskey good with Sprite?”

“Beats me,” he shrugs with one shoulder, even though she is rooting around in the fridge now and cannot see him, while he continues to stare at her music collection, “let’s try it.”

“Well, it’s not Sprite it’s…heh heh, Cloudless brand…Cloudless brand sparkling citrus beverage, that’s what it’s called. Hmm. Organic, too. But hey, it was a markdown.”

In the wake of some cracking ice cube trays, the sounds of someone mixing drinks on the rocks, she materializes in the living room at last, brandishing a pair of tall glasses and extending one to him.

“Hmm, not bad,” he says, sipping at his.

“Yeah, not bad,” she agrees, then turns on a dime to ask, “so, what do you think about these rumors that Destiny might be coming over to run our store?”

At this, Edgar can feel the bottom of his lip fall off a cliff edge on one side, as he suddenly worries that this was the entire reason she invited him here, to pick his brain on this topic. “I don’t know, I haven’t heard anything. That’s a rumor?”

She nods, taking another small drink, and says, “that’s what they’re saying. But see, I’ve heard she kinda sucks.”

This startles Edgar into a quick, jittery laugh, as they stand facing each other, she observing him peering over the rim of her glass. “I don’t know, I mean, sales are good…”

“Well, yeah, sales are good, but I’ve heard she doesn’t actually do anything.”

Destiny is actually somewhat of a legend, though, from what Edgar has heard, and probably earns the benefit of the doubt. At least for now. Even though barely into her thirties, she has been with the company for fifteen years, far longer than anyone outside the owners. Liberty used to have a deli, and she started there, Edgar has even seen some ancient photos of Destiny working behind the counter at such. Located where the employee break room is now, which was eventually shut down and walled off by their freezer section.

“Eh, I mean, I see her on the cash register quite a bit. Most of the time, really. And she deals with the beer section — that much I know because we don’t have anyone else working it.”

The whole store manager running a cash register thing is oddly prevalent, though, in Edgar’s experience, and almost never a good sign. He gets the feeling that upper management often believes they are saving money by having a salaried person ring up groceries, in place of hiring more cashiers. However, in his opinion this is one of those situations where it might look like you are saving money…but if you’re paying someone a managerial salary to perform an entry level job, then you are really not saving any money. Quite the opposite, in fact.

In retrospect, he will wonder where the time goes, or how it is they both wind up at the bottom of their drinks so quickly. But they haven’t drunk that much, it’s not as though he’s blacking out or something. He’s aware that they talk quite a bit, though, and will eventually conclude that the reason the details are not quite as crisp here is because they pale in comparison to much else about this experience.

“Well, what do you say — one more?” she questions, batting her blue eyes up at him, though reaching for his glass before he’s even responded.

“Ahhhhhh…,” he groans, and rubs his jaw, yet another fake reluctance performance that Tonya probably doesn’t buy anyway. “Okay, one more. Then I seriously need to get outta here.”

“Sounds good,” she said, and turns toward the kitchen.

This time, Edgar follows her in there, however. And as she fishes around in the refrigerator and then the freezer, concocting another round, he stands in the crook of the counter, near the sink, taking in the sublime spectacle of her profile. “So…how long have you been with the company, anyway?”

“About two years,” she says.

“Think you’ll stick around for a while?”

“Eh, yeah, a little while. I’d really like to open my own pet store, though, that’s like my dream.”

“I used to be bookkeeper for this one little pet store,” Edgar tells her, his memory triggered out of the blue by her mostly unrelated admission, “of course it was my girlfriend at the time, her family’s, but hey…”

“Really? That’s pretty funny,” Tonya tells him.

“Yeah…,” he says, before realizing that detour had no point, and got her away from talking about herself, “but wait, do you have any pets?”

“Yeah, I’ve got a couple cats but you probably haven’t seen them. They like to hide. Landlord doesn’t know, of course, ’cause I kinda snuck them in after the fact…”

He will later marvel to some extent at his boldness here, because this move isn’t completely natural to him. And maybe one could chalk it up somewhat to the so-called liquid courage. But then again, he thinks most of all, you put him in this close of proximity, off the clock, with a chick he has considered highly attractive from day one, then things are probably going to happen. Also that this will seem inevitable in retrospect, the only surprise that it didn’t feel that way all along.

“I love your little Lucky Charms tattoos here,” he says, and reaches out to touch them, the bite sized stars, horseshoes, rainbows, and other trinkets trailing down from behind her left ear. Running his left index finger along them, all the way down.

“My Lucky Charms tattoos…,” she giggles.

By the time this transpires, she has handed him his second drink, taken one sip of hers before setting it down on the counter. Has her back to him and is putting the ice cube tray away.

“I’m serious,” he says, “they’re adorable.”

Shutting the door and picking up her drink, although still facing away from him, she asks, “wait a second — are they adorable, or are they hot?”

“Both,” he tells her, and she giggles at this, too, before thanking him, softly. Then rocks on her heels, intentionally, to where she is leaning back into him. The next thing he knows, he has placed his own drink on the counter, is reaching around and cupping her breasts from underneath. As he begins kissing said tattoos, before moving down her neck.

Even from this angle, he can tell that Tonya is smiling. Then she reaches over to set her own drink onto the edge, in front of the sink, and holds up one index finger, pulling away from him. Takes a few steps forward before stopping abruptly, in the middle of the linoleum floor. He can’t really tell what she’s doing from here, however, with her back to him still, and him awaiting further instruction after that raised finger. But then her jean shorts suddenly drop to the floor. Then she starts laughing, and then she starts running down the hall.

“Hey!” he shouts, and tears off after her. If not for the merry, mischievous laughter, he might have been unsure, but that wonderfully trilling sound has erased all doubt. And when he catches up to her, in one of the bedrooms, she has spun to face him at last, has already whipped her shirt off and stands in just her bra and panties, both of which are a shiny, satiny beige not much different from that paint job on the patio fences.

“You can’t do that,” he tells her.

“Do what?” she questions, feigning innocence. Batting her eyelashes at him and grinning, as he pulls her somewhat chilly body toward him and they begin kissing for real.