Improvement

He gave me an endearing crooked smile. "So how old are you?" he asked.
    I lifted my chin in a subtle show of strength that I didn't really feel. "You're not supposed to ask a lady that." I cringed at my words. It isn't 1945, Charlie . "But I'm twenty-two. How old are you?" I added in a rush.
    "Older than you," he spat out. His jaw flexed and he raked a hand through his hair.
    Whoa, what was that about? How could my asking how old he was elicit that kind of reaction? His smile was gone and his lips were now pressed into a thin, angry line. Mood swings much?
    A long and tedious moment lapsed.
    Trying to get the casual conversation back, I went for something cliché: "So what's your story, Jesse?"
    "My story? " He chuckled.
    "Did I stutter?" I bit back, taking a drag from my cigarette and trying to remain calm.
    This is getting weird. I mean, how awkward can two people possibly be?
    He smiled again, and when he finally answered, I found that I was relieved to see it. "I'm adopted," he said quickly, his words appearing to be a confession of sorts. With an unsure tone, he lowered his voice and continued to give me tiny details of who he was. "Well, I lived with my foster family. They took me in when I was fifteen, and ended up adopting me before I turned eighteen. I have one brother and one sister—" He ended abruptly, and his jaw flexed from grinding his teeth.
    I took a subtle step back when the look in his eyes shifted from playful to stony. But there was still something about him that propelled me to continue. The poor bastard was more uncomfortable than I was.
    "What brings you to The Crimson? Have you always worked in restaurants?" I asked.
    "Yeah, I mean I've always worked these kinds of jobs. Mostly delivery." After glancing at me briefly, he relaxed his shoulders with a shrug. "I figure a trained monkey could do your job. At least mine involves driving a vehicle."
    What? Wait. That wasn't funny. What a…