"Huh," she says, and looks from one of them, to the other, to the one, and back again. She stares for a while, real close, and then says decisively, "I don't see it."
"So," she continues, getting out a little notepad and a pen. "Mr. Handsome, New Mr. Handsome? What can I do ya' for?"
It would have been funny, he knows, at one point. Once, a while back, someone really just not seeing how identical he and his brother are would have made him want to laugh. Now it just makes him want to squirm, like the whole world can see something he really wishes even he couldn't. Stan's pretty sure he knows what it is she saw: She looked at Ford with his square jaw and close set eyes and big weird nose, and saw his clothes, nice clothes, if pretty wrinkled and a little too big on his skinny self, skinnier than he oughta' be, and she sees the red rims that might as well be tattooed under his eyes. She looks at Stan, at his square jaw and close set eyes and big weird nose, and sees his cheap, stained, thin clothes and his belly and his long hair. Stan wonders for a second if he should maybe lay off the sci-fi and fantasy books he picks up now and then, when he can snag cheap old ones from a store or a library, because for a second he wonders if she looks at the two of them and sees all the years sitting right there between them, too.
But she's looking, and Ford is right here, so only shrinks back into the cheap booth seat behind him for a split second before smiling and setting one arm on the table to lean toward her. "Yeah, you got that right, toots, I'm the one with them rakish good looks," he says, and winks. And yeah, toots, what of it, he knows when a girl wants to be called toots and it works, because she gives a snorting giggle and waves her hand at him. "Stoooop."
"Alright, but only since you asked so nice. I'll have, uh... toast."
"That all, sweetie? Alright, well now, First Mr. Handsome, I'll take your order just as soon as you answer one very important question for me: Why didn't you bring that brother of yours out here earlier? Then I'd have had two of you to look at a long time ago!"
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"So," she continues, getting out a little notepad and a pen. "Mr. Handsome, New Mr. Handsome? What can I do ya' for?"
It would have been funny, he knows, at one point. Once, a while back, someone really just not seeing how identical he and his brother are would have made him want to laugh. Now it just makes him want to squirm, like the whole world can see something he really wishes even he couldn't. Stan's pretty sure he knows what it is she saw: She looked at Ford with his square jaw and close set eyes and big weird nose, and saw his clothes, nice clothes, if pretty wrinkled and a little too big on his skinny self, skinnier than he oughta' be, and she sees the red rims that might as well be tattooed under his eyes. She looks at Stan, at his square jaw and close set eyes and big weird nose, and sees his cheap, stained, thin clothes and his belly and his long hair. Stan wonders for a second if he should maybe lay off the sci-fi and fantasy books he picks up now and then, when he can snag cheap old ones from a store or a library, because for a second he wonders if she looks at the two of them and sees all the years sitting right there between them, too.
But she's looking, and Ford is right here, so only shrinks back into the cheap booth seat behind him for a split second before smiling and setting one arm on the table to lean toward her. "Yeah, you got that right, toots, I'm the one with them rakish good looks," he says, and winks. And yeah, toots, what of it, he knows when a girl wants to be called toots and it works, because she gives a snorting giggle and waves her hand at him. "Stoooop."
"Alright, but only since you asked so nice. I'll have, uh... toast."
"That all, sweetie? Alright, well now, First Mr. Handsome, I'll take your order just as soon as you answer one very important question for me: Why didn't you bring that brother of yours out here earlier? Then I'd have had two of you to look at a long time ago!"