Halfway Bitten Read Online Free

made for them. Under the greasepaint, they were alternating between frowns and complaints, which wouldn’t necessarily bother me, but my nerves were raw from the previous day.
    I slapped my towel down, dropped the tongs I was holding, and went out onto the floor with more than a little anger cooking in my belly. Customers averted their eyes when I passed. Good move. I was in no mood for chit-chat.
    “What’s wrong with your salads?” I asked, resisting the urge to grab a fork and begin flipping the gorgeous Romaine lettuce over to expose the fresh veggies and cheese. I make a damned fine salad. The tomatoes winked up like jewels, and the tuna was roasted perfectly. All three men jumped at my hostile approach and question.
    “You are the chef, yes?” said the clown with blue false eyelashes. He blinked, sending the three-inch lashes up and down in a hilarious wave, and I felt the absurdity of my anger begin to leak out of me.
    I drew a breath through my nose, closed my eyes, and said, “I am the cook . There is no chef. Had I gone to culinary school, I would happily accept the mantel of chef , but as I did not, you must direct all questions to me.” I leaned down to get closer.
    All three clowns drew back instinctively. The middle guy, a skinny fellow with a nose that no amount of makeup could hide, took up the narrative and ran with it. Both his companions uttered audible sighs of relief at his sacrifice. I must have looked really pissed.
    “Forgive me, we were merely wondering if we could have olives.” When I blinked at him stupidly, they exchanged Gallic shrugs under their fluffy costumes before the first clown added, “For the salad. To go with the tuna. It is quite good.” He spread his hands out in submission while I processed their eminently reasonable request.
    “I, ahhh. Of course. May I bring you a dish of chopped cured olives?” I asked, attempting to adopt a tone that indicated I realized the mistake had been mine. Pride goeth before a corrected lunch and all that.
    They all beamed, a terrifying conglomeration of smiles. “That would be perfect,” enthused the third clown, who had apparently taken my admission of guilt as a sign that he could expect to leave the diner alive.
    In the minute it took me to chop olives, plate them, and walk back to the table, I found myself composed and more than a bit embarrassed. My apology was waved away genially, and I stood talking to the men as they expertly divvied and garnished their plates. That was when I noticed they all ate carefully, but with an underlying enthusiasm that seemed almost as if they feared their plates getting up and walking away.
    “You know, we’ve just pulled the loveliest bread from the oven. Salted and buttered on top. May I bring you some? As a sort of thank you for bearing with my excruciating lack of manners?” I entreated, using my most winning smile. They demurred for the proper amount of seconds, before allowing me to run off yet again. I know hungry people, and, despite their reasonable orders of tuna salads, I wanted them full, happy, and with their loins girded for a hot afternoon and evening of terrifying one in three humans they came in contact with. I returned with an entire loaf of bread, sliced and buttered, and a second loaf wrapped in foil and placed in a brown bag to keep it warm. Their effusive praise and thanks lifted my mood as only a kindness granted can bring, and I watched them leave a few moments later from my perch at the grill. My honor was defended, their stomachs were filled, and for the moment I nearly forgot about the pearly skin and staring eyes of the dead girl. Almost.

Chapter Six: Birthday Suit

     
    Sometimes, when I need to burn off tension, I walk. I don’t run unless I’m being chased, but walking is quite acceptable, especially among the bucolic mountain scenery of my home. It’s tough to keep a bad mood thriving after a few dozen lungsful of Adirondack air. I know, I’ve tried.
    After