The Bodyguard ("Salt," story #95

SALT
by Michael Kroetch

The bodyguard is staring down into the paper cup in front of him. Steam rises from the brown liquid inside it. He can feel the wetness linger up past his cheeks. The sensation upsets him and twists him into being even more impossibly fitful and jittery. In response he scuttles, scrapes, claws the chair yet again along the fault lines in the floor with his feet—pretending to adjust the chair, pretending to try and get more comfortable. He doesn’t want to keep doing this (normalcy always), but can’t seem to stop himself. All around him dozens of conversations are occurring. He can feel the wall of their disjointed buzzing pushing in. He isn’t supposed to be here. Not like this. He’s glad he has his gun. But he doesn’t touch it. He won’t let himself. He’s trying to keep a low profile. Fit in. Blend. But he notices how people keep glancing over at him and the jack-o-lantern. Maybe it’s because neither of them are talking and everyone else in the coffee shop is.

He looks back into his cup. He has no idea what the brown substance in it is. She bought it for him. He had one sip, but that was fifteen minutes ago. Maybe. It could have been a shorter span of time. Much shorter. He doesn’t really have any idea how long they’ve been sitting here not speaking to each other. Whatever the jack-o-lantern is up to, the bodyguard isn’t happy about it. She obviously expects him to do something. Or say something. But he won’t. He tries to restrict his professional field of vision to the tall paper cup and not look at the multiple scars across her face or the thin web of skin between her two smallest fingers. He tries to think positive thoughts—like being an army of one. He doesn’t like being out of the shadows and feeling the steam from the brown liquid she ordered for him with its very long name. A name which sounded suspiciously foreign and possibly illegal. Thinking about it makes him want to touch his gun, but still, he doesn’t. And won’t. Instead he re-adjusts his tinted glasses again. Then slowly and stealthfully slips his hand up toward the wire going into his ear. Just in case. Just to be sure he’s still attached. Just to validate his linkage to the chain of command. Just to keep himself in place and keep from scraping the chair on the floor again (normalcy always). And just to give himself some relief from all these hivish eyes looking and looking at him. Quite obviously he would like to touch his gun as well, but he doesn’t. And won’t. He’s glad he can maintain such control. The tiniest of smiles shimmies across his lips at the thought of how impressed his superiors would be to see him exerting such authority. Discipline is what makes a warrior worth his salt. He heard this somewhere. He doesn’t know where, but it’s a code he’s lived by ever since.

That’s when he notices a salt shaker on the blue table beside his cup and wonders why it’s there. This is a coffee shop. There is no food here. Do some people put salt in their coffee? He looks around to see if anyone is. None are. They are all too busy chatting. No one seems to be paying attention to their drinks. This is when the jack-o-lantern suddenly takes his hand in hers and reaches her other one up to place the wafer-thin web of skin between its smallest fingers over his lips.