22
Tamora held three bags of chips pinned between the fingers of her left hand, and her right roved over the snack heap as if psychically divining where to find the exact flavor she wanted.
Dale struggled to swallow. Peanut butter stuck to his tongue and the roof of his mouth, but he choked out “Excuse me,” as he approached.
She didn’t look. The con suite’s noise must have drowned his words.
Dale didn’t want to startle her. “Excuse me?” he repeated, walking closer.
Tamora shifted a couple sacks of Doritos aside and thrust her hand into the gap, extracting a bag of corn chips.
“Excuse me?”
Tamora started, brushing a couple bags off balance so they slid down the heap, gaze whirling towards Dale. He glimpsed her annoyance before she turned to capture the sliding bags.
Dale reached out
