The color drained from his face, then flooded back in a mottled, livid flush. He never came to the cart again.
Instead, he paraded around campus with Fiona on his arm for all to see.
Everyone said I'd been dumped—that the secondhand goods had finally been thrown away. And because I was a divorced single mother who happened to be pretty, every creep in the area suddenly thought I was fair game.
One morning, a heavyset man with a bloated face leaned over the counter, pretending to buy a burrito. His thick fingers reached out and stroked the back of my hand.
I slapped his hand away. My expression turned to ice.
"If you're not here to buy food, move."
My voice carried. Every head in the crowd turned.
The man's face swelled an ugly shade of purple, humiliated in front of everyone.
"Stuck-up bitch. Someone offers you a little attention and you spit in their face?"
"You're damaged goods that's already been passed around. What's the big deal if I cop a feel?"
He grabbed the edge of my cart and flipped it.
The crash of metal slamming into pavement exploded in my ears. The scalding griddle smashed against my forearm.