My hand muscles twitch. About my temples beats a nauseating pulse and a glitter of sunlight flashes up in the roof gutter and blinds me to a dark bird fluttering past.

Then Stone’s voice calls from the doorway.

The cook and the dishwasher back away, but the big one keeps his eyes on me. It is like I have no skin and he is looking inside me. Now that words do not need to come, it is easier to hold his stare. The little one looks at the ground, giggling at himself, while the big one mad-dogs me. He doesn’t even turn around as they pass Stone and return to the kitchen, then he lingers in the doorway, still eyeing me.

My guess would have been that Stone wouldn’t notice, but he senses something and turns to the big one and tells him by name to cut it out. He swats his hand at the space before their eyes, as if he could cut up the feeling or disperse it. The boy takes a step backwards, but Stone lunges forward and holds up a palm. Rattled, the boy retreats to the kitchen and I realize now that they are only small-town boys, poseurs, although there were two of them and only one of me and probably they had more to prove. Or maybe they were just bored and curious and wanted to sniff me out.

Suddenly Stone actually shoves the little one after his friend. They seem as surprised as I am.

What you do that for, Stone? the big one says, sounding hurt but standing his ground in the doorway.

You want to mess with my customers?

We were just talking.

You want me to tell Susan and she’ll tell your mother. Big man.

I don’t care.

Get back inside.

You think I give a shit? he says, but backs inside. Stone looks angrily after him with his chin outstretched and his cheeks red until the boys’ feet back clearly beyond the threshold. Stone’s hand is open like a board and even from this distance you can see that his nostrils are flared.

The boys mumble but disappear.

Satisfied, he turns and ambles towards me. He sits on the hood of an old blue Chrysler to catch his breath, crinkling the metal, and lets his chin double up as his head sags forward towards his chest. The back of his arm comes up to wipe his forehead.

Hope they didn’t rattle you too bad, Gabe.

No problem, I say.

Sorry about that.

I wave with my hand to indicate that it is nothing, nada. It is an awkward ghost of a gesture I have seen Tomas use adroitly many times. Immediately I am sorry I used it, but he does not seem to notice it is not an Anglo movement.

He half smiles upon me, father-like, then pats my shoulder. Damned spics, he says almost gently.