Page 37 of Micah
He usually nurses the same bottle for an hour while everyone else talks.
Sometimes he brings a laptop.
Sometimes he just sits.
Watching.
Thinking.
Listening.
I've tried talking to him before.
Simple things.
“Another beer?”
“How's the ranch?”
“You guys surviving this heat?”
His answers are always polite.
Short.
Almost careful.
Like every word costs him money.
I should probably stop wondering about him.
Instead, I wonder what color his eyes really are.
They're blue.
I know that.
But not ordinary blue.
Sometimes they look gray.
Sometimes silver.
Tonight, they're almost icy.
Cold enough to keep everyone at arm's length.
Except every now and then, when he thinks nobody's looking, I catch him looking at me.
Not at my chest.
Not my butt.
He just looks at me.
Like he's trying to solve a puzzle.
Like he's reading a language only he understands.
