“We should leave.”
“I am not moving.”
The lights softened the tired edges of her face.
“If I had stopped at five, would you have been disappointed?”
“No.”
“What if I quit the marathon?”
“I would ask why. If it was not right for you, I would support you.”
“Even if Evelyn thought she was right?”
“I do not care what Evelyn thinks.”
“I do.”
“That will take time.”
Her eyes closed and stayed closed.
“Amy?”
No response. She had fallen asleep. Sitting upright. I smiled before I could stop. The server passed and looked at us.
“Long day?”
“Six miles.”
She nodded as though that explained everything. Maybe it did. I moved from the opposite side of the booth to sit beside Amy. The vinyl seat shifted. Her eyes opened slightly.
“What are you doing?”
“Making sure you don’t fall.”
“I do not fall this often.”
“Historical data.”
She made a quiet sound and leaned against me. Her head settled on my shoulder. The contact became natural before either of us agreed to it. I stayed still. Her hair brushed my neck. Her hand rested near mine on the seat. This was more intimate than the public kiss. Not physically. Emotionally. Amy trusted me enough to sleep. The trust made me handle my phonecarefully when I took it out. I opened the camera. The image showed Amy sleeping against my shoulder, hair loose, face peaceful.
I took the picture and checked the result. Blake would have loved it. The challenge account would have exploded. The public would have called it romantic. I did not post it. I saved it to a private folder. Some things did not belong to the performance. At eleven forty-three, Amy woke. She blinked at the diner. Then at me.
“Did I fall asleep?”
“No.”
She sat upright.
“You lie badly.”
“Only to you.”
The crosswalk phrase returned. Amy waited. I could have turned it into a joke. I did not.
“I took a picture,” I said.
