Gus by Kim Holden

bakery for some coffee, and Gustov strikes up a conversation with the friendly woman behind the counter. I envy how easy it is for him—talking to a stranger like they're old friends. I've never been able to do that. Gustov pays for both coffees and tips her ten dollars. She gives us each a flaky pastry she calls a "Dutch letter", and tells us to have a nice day.  
    After we step outside, Gustov's pastry is gone in three bites. He's wearing the wide eyes of a child when he swallows the last of it. "Holy shit, Dutch letters are the motherfucking real deal. We're stopping there on the way back to the bus and buying more. Like every last one Debbie has."  
    I noticed the woman's name tag, because I'm obsessive about taking in every last detail, but I didn't think it's something Gustov would have noticed. I'm surprised. And I have to agree with him about the Dutch letters. They're delicious. "Yeah, we should probably buy some for everyone else."
    "Who said for everyone else? I'm going to sustain myself solely on these luscious little almond-filled pieces of heaven for the next few days." He winks so I know he's kidding. Sort of. I have no doubt he could put away a dozen of them.

    Upon arrival at the laundromat, Gustov proceeds to empty the entire contents of his bag into one machine. It's filled to beyond capacity. I'm standing next to him, sorting my clothes and bedding on a folding table. I stop what I'm doing and look repeatedly from the machine to his face, and back to the machine questioningly.  
    He senses my evident dismay.  
    I look again from his face to the burdened machine, and back up at him. My eyes always stop on his beard, because I can't meet his eyes. Eye contact at close range is uncomfortable with most people. And I don't know how to explain it, but I don't want to look in eyes and see scrutiny. I don't want to see him staring at my scars. Most people talk to my scars, not to my eyes. I'm as used to it as I suppose a person can ever be. I don't want to be my scars to him ... or anyone.
    He lifts his hands, palms upward, in a questioning manner. "What, dude?"
    Shaking my head, I ask, "Have you ever done your own laundry?"
    He bobs his head up and down as he answers. "Of course."
    I doubt that. "Ever heard of sorting?" I don't know why this is so irritating to me. It's probably because I'm overanalyzing everything and it's messing with my head. Why can't I just have a normal conversation?
    "That takes too much damn time. It all gets clean either way," is his defense.
    I begin pulling his clothes out of the machine. "Well, you're also going to kill this machine if you put this many clothes in." After they're all removed, I sort them into my piles. Gustov stands back, arms crossed, making no effort to stop me. I also note that he's smirking.
    After our clothes are in three separate machines, I sit down and open my mystery novel while he runs back down to the bakery. The quietude is unexpected for a laundromat. Usually they're busy and dirty and loud. This one's not any of those things. Just as the clothes finish the rinse cycle, he returns with three boxes of pastries.
    After we find three open dryers, Gustov pulls a small cardboard box out of his bag. "Wanna play a game?" he asks, as he slides a wooden box out of the packaging.
    My curiosity is piqued. "You want to play a game?"
    He shrugs. "Sure. We've got nothing but time." He glances at the dryer behind us. "Forty-seven minutes to be exact. More than enough time for a few rounds of Mancala."
    "Mancala?"
    "Yeah, Mancala," he says. He looks at me quizzically. "Please don't tell me you've never played Mancala. We need to remedy that ASAP if that's the case."
    "Never heard of it."
    He opens the wooden box, which turns out to be a folded game board hinged in the middle. He starts distributing flat marbles in equal numbers into circular indentions on both sides of the box. "I used to play this with friends all the time," he explains. "I saw it at the truck stop