There is already someone bent over the open vending machine when I creep down the empty hall with my quarters. Cursing my bad luck, I stand a few yards away, weighing my options: I can wait until I get home, another five hours and a midnight away, or I can wait until the vending machine attendant is finished and get my goddamn peanut M&Ms.
I watch for another moment. The man is black, clean-shaven, and appears to be well-built, even squatting down with junk food scattered around him. I've seen him before—he's our regular stocking guy. I wonder if I've smiled at him or just ignored him like I do with the rest of the night workers. Perhaps, I think, guiltily palming my quarters, he'll trade me something for an extra fifty cents. If I smile this time.
The coins jangle and the man perks up. I grumble, but it's too late. "Hi," I say.
He sizes me up, getting in an extra long, lazy look. The back of my neck warms. "Well hello there," he says, grinning to show very white, very straight teeth. "I didn't think anyone was workin' this late." His eyes say something else entirely.
"Just me," I say with a dramatic sigh to hide my body's bold response to his unspoken invitation. A nervous chuckle. "Normally even I don't indulge in night-owl shifts, but this project has to get done."
"Ahhh." He straightens up, and I realize he is much taller than I am, and that his hands are rough but the calluses are worn down. "Need some relief?"
