The Piano Player
Bobby Murillo was waiting for me.
I was on break, carrying a tray with a plate of kung pao chicken and fried rice just past the piano and towards my usual table when I spotted him. He had a grating smile on his chubby face, a shopping bag at his feet, and he was extending his hand toward the open seat across from him. I turned and searched desperately for somewhere else to sit, but at almost noon on a Saturday, the Hanfield Mall food court was crammed with famished bargain hunters. I’d have better luck finding a genuine diamond ring at Zades Jewelry.
Before I even sat down, the smell hit me. Either no one had the nerve to tell Bobby that using six squirts of Drakkar Noir to cover up a lack of personal hygiene was equivalent to pissing on a forest fire, or he just didn't
