For a moment she just looked at me, suspicion in every muscle.
Then she asked, “Why?”
There were at least six possible answers to that, ranging from embarrassing to incriminating.
I chose the one I could live with.
“Because I saw the jacket and disliked him immediately.”
Her lips parted.
I went on before dignity could intervene. “I am aware that my behavior lacked grace.”
She stared at me for a long second, then huffed out something halfway between a laugh and disbelief.
“That’s your apology?”
“No. That was context.”
“And the apology?”
“I am sorry.”
The words settled between us. Plain. Unadorned. She didn’t know how rarely these words escaped my mouth and how much more rarely I meant them.
She studied me carefully, as though testing whether I meant them.
Finally, she looked down at her coffee. “You scared me today.”
The admission was quiet, but I heard the truth in it. Fear of what I might turn into.
“That was not my intention,” I said.
“I know.” She traced one finger around the cardboard sleeve of her cup. “That might be worse.”
I frowned slightly. “Explain.”
She hesitated. Then, with the caution of someone handing over more than she wanted to, she said, “Because men who don’t mean to be controlling usually think that excuses it.”
I froze.
There it was. Not the whole story, but enough.
When I answered, my voice came out quieter than before. “It does not.”
Her eyes lifted to mine then, searching, measuring.
“No,” she said after a beat. “It doesn’t.”
For a moment the noise of the café seemed to pull back from us. Cups, voices, chairs scraping over tile, all of it fading under the weight of that small exchange.
Then, because anything else would have been cowardice, I said, “Have dinner with me.”
She blinked. “You really know how to pick your timing.”
“I’m trying honesty. It appears to be the less disastrous strategy.”
“That remains to be seen.”
