Expiration Date (Books 1 and 2)

2 Don't You Put Ketchup On Your Grilled Cheese?

Iris~~

I pull open the front door of Chester's, the smell of fried food initiating the grumble from my stomach. The inclement weather seems to have caused a flood of patrons. The separate conversations join together in a potluck of words—I'm not really sure what I'm hearing, but they all come together to create a buzzing energy, life. This is my favorite restaurant. I was here earlier for lunch. It was the first place I ate when I moved to Baltimore. I focus my eyes on an empty booth in the back room and guide Erik under a wooden archway to a green checkered table.

My hand scoots along with me as I slide over the brown vinyl cushion of the booth. "My last name is Levine."

He already has his silverware unrolled, laying the napkin across his lap. "Is that supposed to mean something to me?"

Yes, it was supposed to be a signal for you to say your own last name. "No, decorum obligated me to say it."

He folds his hands and looks at the wall.

I drum my fingers across the cushion. "You?"

"My last name is inconsequential to someone in your position."

My fingers pause. "That means?"

He glances at a rather expensive looking watch on his wrist. "At the most you have two hours to store my last name in your head. It would be a waste to tell you."

I start drumming my fingers again. He didn't have to be my personal timer. Also, he's horrible at acting like he has nothing to hide. Does he really think I don't recognize him? I don't know what danger there would be in telling someone who has less than two hours to live. Maybe he thinks since it's my last day, I'll lash out at him—not the worst assumption considering I did invite him to eat with me, hoping there would be the possibility for revenge.

Erik stares at me. Uncomfortable, I reach for the closest object to occupy my hands with—the salt shaker.

"Are you wearing contacts?" he asks.

Sitting up, I set the salt shaker down. It wobbles. "What—"

"Welcome to Chester's." Our waitress sets two menus in front of us. When she pulls back her arm, I see she has less than five years. "Can I get you started with something to drink?"

I glance at Erik, but he's still staring at me. "A cherry soda, please," I say.

The waitress looks at him.

"Water."

She leaves, and I return my focus to the salt shaker.

"Contacts?" he asks.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"Are you wearing contacts?" He sounds irritated.

"No. I don't need them."