She seemed at ease with herself, in a way that the table had tried, in vain, to disrupt.
“Before I begin,” he said, “I judge people based on the aisle they head towards first.”
“Very risky.”
“Extremely.”
We spent two hours in this bookstore.
She took some books off the shelves and told me which covers were misleading.
I showed her the wall where the staff recommendations were displayed and explained how an eighty-year-old customer could ruin our entire buying strategy by recommending a detective novel to half the neighborhood.
He had me choose a collection of poems.
I asked him to choose a cookbook.
Neither of them bought the book they had intended to buy.
I thought it was a sign.
Then we went to a small cafe on the corner of the street.
One of those places with mismatched chairs and a table by the window that inadvertently prompts you to tell the truth.
Halfway through her coffee, Emma stirred her cup and said:
“May I ask you an embarrassing question?”
“Given our history, I think we’ve already gone beyond the conventions.”
She smiled, then she became serious.
“Did you feel the need to defend me?”
I could have responded immediately. I didn’t.
“No,” I replied. “I felt like Brad was trying to make you the butt of a joke I didn’t want to hear.”
Our eyes met.
“What if I had taken care of it?”
“I would have enjoyed seeing him suffer.”
That made him laugh.
A real, resounding laugh, so warm that the table behind us turned around.
Then he lowered his eyes to his cup.
“I’m used to people forming an opinion before I even open my mouth. Especially men.”
He looked at me again.
“So when you looked at me as if I were just the person sitting next to you… that made you change your mind.”
I felt a tightness in my chest.
“That’s exactly what you were,” I said.
“Exactly.”
The meeting did not end after coffee.
We went for a stroll in an art supply store, where he bought some paintbrushes and made me guess what each one was used for.
I have failed, that is absolutely certain.
She placed more importance on trust than on accuracy.
We were outside his building in the late afternoon, and neither of us had a valid excuse to postpone the meeting, other than the obvious.
Emma clutched her backpack tightly to her chest.
“So,” he said, “unexpectedly beautiful?”
“Better.”
Her smile softened.
His phone then vibrated.
She looked at him and her expression changed.
Don’t be afraid.
Fatigue.
“What’s new?”
He just turned the screen.
It was a message from Mark’s wife.
“I heard you and Adam were together. That’s cute. I guess the date went well in the end.”
Emma stared at the message.
Then he looked at me and said in a low voice:
“I don’t want them to think they’re taking all the credit.”
I looked at my phone.
Then she did it again.
“They don’t take credit for it.”
Our eyes met.
“No?”
CONTINUE READING…>>
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