“Not exactly what I had in mind when I offered you food,” Jake said, pulling limp pastries from the convenience store’s microwave oven. The pungent scent of hotdog wrapped around—without making palatable—a body of smells comprised of stale cigarette smoke, popcorn, gasoline, various body odors, wet dog and something that fell under the general heading of dirt. The mix permeated every corner of the dingy store, even the pastries Jake carried to their tiny table. A scratchy radio dispensed a country-sounding wail into the chilled air while the middle-aged clerk desultorily turned the pages of a tattered National Enquirer.
“Small-town Friday night,” Phoebe said, the look in her eyes equal parts amused and resigned.
He crowded the pastries onto the tabletop with her watery juice drink and hi
