She touched the watch. Then moved her hand away.
“Consistency without control.”
“Explain.”
“I do not need constant contact. I do need to trust that silence is not punishment and distance is not abandonment.”
I wanted to promise more than I could control. “I can try honestly.”
“That is better.”
The server brought food. The date became easier after we admitted it was difficult. We argued about whether pasta was efficient marathon fuel. Amy told me about a childhood summer when she and her grandmother had tracked every bird visiting the backyard. I told her about the year Gloria made me join an after-school dance program because I kept getting suspended for running through hallways.
“You were suspended for running?”
“Repeatedly.”
“You had poor spatial judgment.”
“I had speed.”
“You collided with a teacher.”
“She changed direction.”
“Victim blaming.”
“She forgave me.”
Amy laughed. There it was. The sound no one else produced in exactly the same way. The date lasted two hours. No spreadsheet. No camera. No one asked us to prove anything. We should have walked directly toward her apartment. Instead,rain began without appearing on any forecast Amy had checked, and we ran beneath the striped awning of an old arcade two doors down. The sign promised TWENTY TOKENS FOR FIVE DOLLARS. Amy read the offer twice.
“Do not calculate the cost per failure,” I said.
“I was calculating comparative entertainment value.”
“Same disease.”
Inside, the carpet contained every color no responsible designer would combine. Machines chimed beneath purple lights. A teenager at the counter exchanged my five dollars for tokens and did not care that this was an important romantic detour. Amy selected air hockey because it had a clear objective, visible boundaries, and a score. She beat me seven to three.
“You said you did not play,” I told her.
“I said I had not played recently.”
“Technically accurate intimidation.”
“Skill assessment should precede prediction.”
At Skee-Ball, she developed a repeatable release within four throws and became furious when the machine credited one ball to the wrong ring. I spent three tokens trying to win a plastic compass from a claw machine because it looked like my tattoo. The claw dropped it every time.
“This apparatus has a manipulated success rate,” Amy said.
“Are you comforting me?”
“I am documenting fraud.”
She took the final token. Her first attempt lifted the compass, carried it halfway, and dropped it against the chute. Amy stared at the machine as though preparing litigation. Then she struck the glass lightly with both palms.
“No,” she said.
