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Meet Rafe

The pencil snapped on the paper, and Rafe Falcon swore loudly. “Godddamn, motherfucking piece of shit . . .”

He took a deep breath. This wasn’t that difficult. He wasn’t in the firehouse right now. No pressure. No klaxons. No bells. No axes. No buildings on fire.

As a grown man, he should be able to handle this. He’d been a firefighter for almost twenty years. If he could climb a five-story ladder with an axe, an oxygen tank, and fifty pounds of gear, he would not quit here.

25 across, eight letters.

Begin at the beginning.

The New York Times crossword puzzle was mocking him yet again.

“Start. Five letters. Why the hell are you using the same word twice?” Rafe growled at the paper. It didn’t respond as usual, and he wondered why he kept up this torturous ritual.

It was a regular post call morning for him. He’d finish his 24-hour shift at Firehouse 15, drive to his favorite quiet coffee shop, and enjoy his paper.

Or rip his paper to pieces by erasing it too hard.

“Trialed.” He wrote his guess in with a fresh pencil. “Seven letters. Crap.”

He tried to erase gently. The New York Times paper, getting thinner and cheaper every day, had trouble competing with the strength of his shoulders and biceps. By his tenth erasure, it’d be time to use his second copy of the paper.

The Monday crossword was easy. The Saturday one was the hardest.

He decided to put the ‘ED’ at the end and figure out the start.

“Don’t do that. It’s not a past tense clue.” A hand tapped the box in the left corner. “You can’t used an ‘ED.’”

Rafe followed the pointer finger up an arm to a blue-eyed blonde. She was holding a cup of coffee and another copy of the Saturday paper.

“Why not?” he asked.

“If they wanted you to use past tense, it would have said, ‘began am the beginning.’”

“Goddamn it. No fuck-,” he started to swear and then stopped himself. This wasn’t the firehouse. He was not supposed to swear the blue streak while interacting with the regular public. “You’re right. No ‘ED’ on the verb.”

“It’s not a verb anyway,” she indicated the clue. He noted her fingernails had been chewed down, and her left ring finger bore the blank old callus of a past wedding ring.

That was interesting because she couldn’t have been far past thirty. Then again, he’d been divorced twice so who was he to judge?

“Then what is it?” he hissed.

“Menachem.” She smiled at him like he hadn’t been giving off his best ‘leave me and my paper in peace or I will end you’ vibe.

“‘Men’ what?”

“It’s asking for the name of Menachem Begin, an Israeli Prime Minister. ‘Begin at the beginning.’”

“Oh.” He wrote it in and looked at the clue opened up by the answer.

British righteousness. Six letters down.

Ah, this one he knew.

Honors, he wrote.

“Hey, umm. Not quite.” the woman said

He looked up at her smiling face and scowled. “Why are you still here?”

Didn’t she get it? Between his hair, massive muscles, and the black dragon tattoo that started on his right wrist and climbed are the way across his shoulders, people in the coffee shop tended to give him a wide berth. Her grin and her bobbed straight almost white blonde hair could go elsewhere.

Undeterred by his failure to make interesting conversation, she said, “You’re close, but no cigar.”

“How the hell would you know?” He checked around to see if she supposed to be meeting someone here. She had one cup of coffee and a pastry bag.

“It says ‘British.’ Which means h-o-n-o-u-r with a U.” Still grinning, she took his pencil away and overwrote his answer without erasing or ripping the paper. “No thanks needed.”

“You won’t get it.” What was going on here? Had he hit his head last shift and entered an alternate reality where he’d turned into suburban soccer mom coffee shop catnip?

When he glanced back up, she still hadn’t moved. The woman hadn’t stopped smiling, and even he had to admit she was cute.

“Yes? Why are you still here?”

“Well, you come in here once a week and destroy the paper, so I figured I could help you out,” she said.

“My paper and I are fine.”

“Right. Did you have a bad night at the firehouse?” She sat down in the chair next to him, plopping her coffee and pastry bag on the table.

“You know what I do?”

“It says so on your shirt.” She’d unsettled him enough for him to forget he was still wearing his uniform top.

“Oh.” He was terrible at this. There was a reason he was divorced twice.

“Bad night?”

“Yeah, after three dead bums and no sleep for the past thirty-six hours, I’m not in the best mood. Best go about your way and bother some other shithead who isn’t fucking awful at the crossword.” Rafe knew he wasn’t being fair, but he hadn’t been in the mood for company outside of his firehouse for a while now.

“Want to talk about it?”

“No.”

“Fine. I’m still helping you.” She tapped on the clues. “What do you think this one means?”

“It means take a hint and leave.”

“Nah, it’s only eight letters. ‘Take a hint and leave’ is seventeen. I’m Ava by the way.”

Despite himself, he chuckled. “Fine, Ava. Five letters. Bottled spirit.”

She winked at him. “Genie. Or vodka.”