He had been scratching himself unconsciously most of the
morning, slipping his fingers in at the waistband of his blue jeans and digging
in with his fingernails. But the busyness of his morning routine – rotating
sheets of baguettes in and out of the giant commercial oven, slicing tomatoes
and onions, filling the sauce dispensers, and dealing with the slow trickle of
breakfast customers – had distracted Mike from considering the cause of the itch. Megan,
the college student recently hired by the shop’s owner, was the first to draw attention
to it. She was cleaning tables in Sub
Zone’s cramped dining area, spraying the tabletops and chairs with a fine
mist of pink antibacterial cleaner and wiping them dry with a gray towel. She
stopped and looked at Mike until he finally became uncomfortable and said, “What?”
“Do you have a rash or something?” She said.
Mike had been restocking the rack of potato chips that stood
next to the cash register. He bent and grabbed a handful of Baked Lays bags. “What?” He said. He laughed uncomfortably. “I don’t think so. Why?”
“You keep scratching.” She said, pretending to claw at her
own waistline.
Mike suddenly realized that he had been scratching. In fact, he now noticed a warm, slight tingle,
just below his naval. And at his hip.
He felt the impulse to reach for it, but caught himself.
“It’s these pants, maybe. They're just rubbing my skin wrong
or something.” He said. Feeling his face flush with embarrassment, he began quickly
emptying the large cardboard box of potato chips at his feet.
She walked over to him. He didn’t look at her, but he could
feel her standing close.
“Do you ever worry about bedbugs?” She said. “My mom said
there’s been a resurgence of bedbugs. In cities mostly. I guess they travel in
people’s luggage and stuff.” Megan had hooked the spray bottle filled with pink
cleaner on the front pocket of her blue jeans. She was twirling the rag
thoughtlessly.
Mike tossed the last bag of chips on the rack and picked up
the empty box. He made brief eye contact with Megan, brushing past her on his
way to the small storage room at the back of the shop. When he returned, she was
crouching low, cleaning the legs of a chair.
She made him nervous. She was
flirtatious with him; or else, he had considered, her beauty caused him to interpret
her actions as flirtatious. He had enjoyed it in the beginning, when he still
thought there was some potential between them. But now the casual, familiar way
she treated him made him uncomfortable. She didn’t seem to care that he was
several years older and technically her superior.
“Bedbug bites cause an itchy rash.” She said, standing up. “Didn’t
your parents ever sing that song ‘goodnight,
sleep tight, don’t let the bedbugs bite’?”
“I’ve heard it.” Mike said in a serious tone. “But I don’t
have bedbugs, if that’s what you’re trying to get at. I’m pretty O-C-D about keeping my apartment clean.”
“It doesn’t matter.” She said. She was finished cleaning,
standing behind the counter now, her hands propped on the sneeze-guard over the
sandwich assembly table. She leaned toward him emphatically. “If a bedbug gets
carried in on your pants, in your backpack – whatever – they can live anywhere.
It doesn’t matter how much you clean.” Megan said.
Two women walked through the front door. Mike and Megan
greeted the customers and waited while they examined the handwritten menu on a
blackboard that hung on the wall behind the counter.
“Have you been here before?” Mike asked.
One of the women nodded.
“Let us know if we can help with anything.” He said.
The women ordered two turkey sandwiches and sat, waiting, at
a table beneath a large poster that categorized different varieties of cheese.
As Mike and Megan stood side-by-side assembling the
sandwiches, Megan whispered, “Do you want to hear something gross?”
“No.” Mike said.
“You realize, right, that bedbugs feed off of human blood?” She said, gleefully. “That’s
why they’re biting you. They’re eating
your flesh and drinking your blood.”
Mike picked up the mayonnaise squirt bottle and gave her a
stern look. “Could you not talk about this with customers here?”
The two women were chatting away, oblivious to Megan and
Mike.
“They can’t hear me.” She said.
They finished up, and while Megan brought the sandwiches out
to the women, Mike escaped to the restroom. He guessed it was only
psychological, but ever since Megan had started talking about bedbugs, the
itchiness at his waistline had intensified. He locked the door behind him and standing in front of the mirror, pulled up his shirt. There were red, raised
lines across the pale flesh just above the top of his blue jeans where he had
been scratching. He unbuckled his belt, opened the fly on his jeans, and dropped
them a few inches. A loose pattern of pink bumps wrapped around him like a
broad belt of acne. He scratched at it a bit, but then realized that might be a
bad idea and quit. He stared at the reflection of his somewhat pudgy mid-section,
twisting left and right to get the fullest view possible.
There was a knock on the restroom door.
“Mike, are you in there?” Megan whispered.
Mike’s first instinct was to remain quiet, to ignore her
with the hopes that she might wander off. He yanked his pants up.
“What do you want?” He said.
“Do you have any bites?” She asked. She was only inches
away, with only the plywood door separating them.
“Um, could you go away? Please.” He said.
“I can look.” She said, giggling “I’ve seen pictures
online. I know what they look like.”
He opened the door a crack and peeked out at her. “What’s
wrong with you? Why are you so obsessed with bedbugs?”
She pushed in on the door, smiling.
“This is inappropriate.” He said, backing away.
Megan slipped into the restroom and closed the door behind
her. “Don’t freak out.” She said. “I’m just interested in this stuff. I’m
thinking of changing my major to medicine or something.”
“Really?” Mike said, his voice weak.
“It’s right above your belt, right? That’s where you were
really scratching hard.” She crouched
down, her face a few inches from his stomach. She looked up at him, her eyes
wide, and said, “I hope it’s not really gross.”
“This is stupid.” Mike said, but he slowly lifted his shirt.
They both became very quiet. The only sounds were the restroom’s exhaust fan,
and out in the shop, the indistinct murmur of the two women talking with
one another.
Mike looked at the door, trying not to focus on the
awkwardness of the situation. Megan remained quiet a few seconds longer. Then,
using her index finger, she jabbed once at a pink spot on Mike’s stomach.
“I don’t know, man.” She finally said. “Could be bites.
Could be zits.” She stood upright and shrugged. “If I were you, I’d check
online when you get home.”
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