February Fever by Jess Lourey

I’m outta here.”
    I pointed at the bottom of the menu. “Cream puffs, ice cream, or cheesecake.”
    â€œLemme see that.” She pushed the expand button on her reading light. The light unfurled like an arm and automatically clicked on when it reached its full extent, illuminating her menu. “Well I’ll be. And a wine list too. Guess we’re staying.”
    â€œAnd this seat is for you.”
    All three of us looked up in surprise as the host extended his arm, indicating that the man behind him should sit next to Mrs. Berns. She darted her hand out to the seat, her reading light still extended. “I don’t eat with strangers,” she said.
    The host made a Droopy dog face. “I’m sorry, but every seat must be taken. That’s how it works on the train.”
    â€œWell, lemme see him,” Mrs. Berns said reluctantly, trying to peer around the host. “If he’s cute, he can stay.”
    The man stepped out. He was maybe six feet tall, thick in the middle, his hair wet-looking and slicked back. He was wearing a thin gray suit, no tie, white dress shirt open at the collar. He smelled like a car salesman—specifically, stale cigarettes and a waxy cologne. My eyes dropped to his hands. You can tell a lot about a person by how they maintain themselves below the wrists. His fingernails were longish but clean, perfect white crescent moons at the end of strong, long fingers. No yellow cigarette stains on his pointer fingers. The only ring was gold, and on his pinky.
    I had one thought: cop .
    He extended the hand I was staring at. “Terry Downs.”
    â€œNope,” Mrs. Berns said, swatting down his hand. “You’ll need to move on. Cute or scoot is the rule here.”
    I felt bad for him with his hand out, so I shook it. “Mrs. Berns,” I said, “I don’t think we have a choice. Mr. Downs doesn’t have anywhere else to sit.”
    Mrs. Berns blew a breath out with such force that her bangs flew away from her face. “Fine.” She held her menu up so it formed a wall between her and the new arrival and talked pointedly to me. “What’re you going to have?”
    I glanced at Terry. He didn’t seem to mind Mrs. Berns’s behavior. Realizing I was caretaking the man when I’d only just met him, I made a conscious decision to let him fend for himself and to shift my full attention to my friends. “A salad, and maybe the fish?”
    Mrs. Berns shook her head. “Fish?” She tapped her finger on the window. “You see any lakes out there?” Then she indicated the entire train car. “Do you see any ovens? Honey, don’t order the fish. Our bedroom and our bathroom are the same room. Do you get what I’m saying?”
    I did, but I really wanted the fish. She had a point, of course, one I hadn’t thought of. Everything we were going to eat on this train had potentially been here since New York, and it would come microwaved. Pasta is always your best bet in such a situation. But there was something about someone telling me I couldn’t have something that made me want it a million times more. “I bet it’ll be fine,” I said quietly.
    She held eye contact, her eyebrows raised in a really? I held my ground.
    â€œI’m gonna get the peanut butter and jelly and some French fries,” Jed said.
    I glanced over. “I think that’s the kid’s menu.”
    He nodded happily. “I know! I almost didn’t see it.”
    â€œChicken for me,” Mrs. Berns said, studying the menu. “It’ll taste as good as chewing on my own leg, but at least I won’t be painting the toilet brown all night.”
    â€œAll right,” I said, cutting her off before she got her steam up. Once she started talking about poop, she really committed. “So, Mr. Downs, did you get on in Fargo?”
    He glanced at his watch, a thick gold affair so cheap-looking