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He laughs.

We order our entrées—the filet for him, swordfish for me—and then he leans across the table with a serious look on his face.

“Thank you for being here with me,” he says.

“Oh, stop. I’m so glad I could be here with you.”

“I’ve been thinking.”

I take a sip of champagne that I sense I’ll need.

“I want to be more to you,” he says.

“More to me?”

“I mean, don’t get me wrong—I like what we’re doing. I just want it to be known that I really like you. I don’t want to just be your Bay Area hookup or whatever.”

“Oh,” I say, reaching for a piece of bread in the basket, and then using it as one would a stress ball. “That’s kind of a crass way of putting it. I wouldn’t say you’re my Bay Area hookup. That implies I have other area hookups.”

I laugh. This is what I do when I’m nervous, when the gravity of a particular moment overwhelms me. Elijah does not laugh.

“I’m not really sure what I am to you. And maybe it’s too soon to ask. It’s not like we’ve known each other that long.”

“I guess I wasn’t really thinking about putting a label on it,” I say. It is a line that men usually give women who want more, a line that criticizes the woman’s need for definition as a cover for commitment issues. I hate myself for using it.

“I’m just looking for some sense of where you’re at, that’s all.” He’s so direct, so honest. It’s disarming. “It’s selfish, really. I want to knowhow much I need to protect my heart. If you’re not in this with any seriousness, then I need to reel myself in. You know what I’m saying?”

I do know what he is saying, and if I was as direct and honest as him, I would say,You should protect your heart. I’m a mess. My name isn’t even Katrina. Please reel yourself in.

Instead, though, I say, “I totally get it” and then fail to elaborate on what exactly I get or what I plan to do about it.

“I don’t want to put pressure,” he says. “But I think I need to know where you see this going. Not tonight. But soon. Next time I see you?”

My bread/stress ball has become gummy from the sweat in my palm. I keep squeezing it.

“Okay, yeah, I understand,” I say.

I don’t see this going anywhere.

Or rather, I have to divorce my husband before this can go anywhere.

Yes, I have a husband.

And children. Two of them.

My name is Nicole.

Do you still want to know where this is going?

I am getting hot, this conversation throwing off whatever internal systems normally keep me at a reasonable temperature. I take a sip of water, let a cube of ice roll around my mouth.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’ve made it weird.”

I swallow the ice cube, feel it slide down my throat. I take another sip of water. My body cools.

“No, no, I’m the one who has made it weird,” I say. “It is one of my fortes.”

He laughs. We are back to laughing.