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That explains it,I thought. Her posture. Her swan neck. The fact that she was the only person I’d ever met who looked graceful mounting a barstool.
“What about you?”
“Fireman,” I said. “But I think that’s only because it’s what my dad did, and it sounded cool and dangerous. Also, I hate being cold, and nothing’s cozier than Kevlar.”
“Why the change of heart?”
"The lack of fair compensation.”
“Understandable,” she said. “I don’t know what firemen get paid, but—”
“Not enough, I assure you.”
“No doubt.”
“So, are you from Chicago originally?” I asked.
“Winnetka,” she said. “You?”
“Oak Park.”
“Interesting,” she said, fingering the edge of her coaster. “So what’s your West Side story?”
“My dad’s a retired fireman and my mom used to teach second grade.”
“Siblings?”
“One brother,” I said, failing to mention we were twins so I could skip the predictable follow-up questions about our mindreading capabilities, our adventures in mistaken identity, and which of us was the evil one.
“And are they all here still?”
“No. California. For about ten years now.”
“That’s sad,” she said. “Having your family so far away.”
“What’s sad is the fact that they’re paying California taxes.”
“Illinois’s not much better,” she said. “And you know what I mean.”
I hid my inner turmoil as best I could. “The important thing is that everyone’s happy where they are.”
“I suppose that’s true.”
“I take it your family’s still local?”
She nodded. “Just had brunch with my sister today.”
“I hope you let her get a word in edgewise and didn’t gush about me the whole time.”
Her lips fought a smile. “It was tough, but I managed to let her speak once or twice.”
The hostess appeared behind us with two menus clutched to her chest. “Your table is ready.”
