"So, how far are you going?" Alé asked him once they were in the car. She turned the volume of the music down, but was pleased to notice that the next song on the deck was No Doubt's Hella Good.
No doubt his snobbish sensibilities could use some ruffling, she thought to herself. He's just a huge bundle of negative energy.
She could practically feel the air pressure growing heavier in his presence, and she touched the prayer-card of St. Joseph taped to her flip-visor with a silent Hail Mary to buoy her mood.
He didn't seem to mind as much as she'd hoped that he would, however; he just slid the passenger seat back as far as he could to accommodate his long legs and placed his folded coat and scarf on the floor.
He also tossed, without permission, his briefcase and small carry-on suitcase into the messy back-seat of her car.
"Santa Barbara," he said carefully, as though he'd never been there and wasn't sure if she would know where it was.
"Oh! Funny, that's where I'm headed. Whereabouts?"
"Police station."
"Ok." She was not too surprised to hear that. "May I ask what for?"
"I won't answer that," he said, and he was already texting again. "Idiot," he added under his breath.
It required another mental recitation of Hail Mary to prevent her from decking him.
Santa Maria, madre de dios, juevos por nosotros peccadores, ahora y a l'hora de nostra muerte.
It was not difficult for her to ascertain that he was a non-talkative type; they said nothing further for the next half hour. It was just at the point that the silence was getting comfortable that the delicate finger-dancing on his smartphone paused between quadrilles and he asked, "So, your emergency in Santa Barbara. Could it be about the recently widowed relative about whose coronary dysfunctions you have been concerned of late?"
She shook her head, wondering how he knew about her great-aunt Marta and her heart conditions. Probably he'd caught a glimpse of the funeral program of her great-uncle in her glove compartment and decided that she looked sickly.
"Any other day I'd be doing this kind of thing for my family, but not this time. It involves a client. As you correctly understood, I am a licensed clinical social worker."
He scoffed. "Elementary deduction."
"I'm sure," she replied dismissively. She didn't like men who thought they were impressive, especially when they pretended that they knew and understood her. "But you're wrong about the wolfhound," she added, "That was a client's. I have no time for my own pets."
"But you were thinking of acquiring one since your break-up a few weeks ago."
He's right about that, she admitted, electing to remain silent, as she couldn't lie but she didn't want to act amazed either, and a nonreply would be confirmation enough. It was clear enough how he'd known, though most people would probably not notice the tightness of her jeans that came with the six or seven pounds of lonely binge-eating in front of the television watching telanovelas on recent weeknights.
Or the fact that she'd not touched-up her roots and the brown of her natural hair color was starting to show through the red dye, the devil-may-care way her bra showed from beneath an ill-fitting camisole, or the bottle of Lexapro in her cupholder, or the pink hoodie that was decidedly not hers draped over the back of her seat within perfect reach to sniff for the comfort of the scent.
Or innumerable other signs of which she was probably not even cognizant. Undoubtedly the fact that she had been fraternizing with said client's dog so enthusiastically was testament to her loneliness as well as the fact that she had been considering the investment in a pet of her own.
He didn't seem to care or notice the pain that she felt color her face, and she felt somewhat violated, as well as rather angry.
Before she could say anything, however, he presented her with a question.
"Have you ever heard of Un Ministerio Que Responda a la Agresión?" he asked, looking comfortable and smug as he continued to type unabated on his phone. She felt like smacking him.