“People say that when they’ve never met expense reports.”
“Numbers are consistent. Interpretation can be dishonest.”
“Very romantic.”
“I did not choose the field for romance.”
“What did you choose it for?”
“Stability.”
“That word again.”
“My grandmother raised me for several years while my parents were dealing with work and financial problems.”
The watch. Refrigerator labels. Schedules.
“She taught you planning.”
“She taught me that preparation was kindness.”
That explained more than any assessment. Amy did not plan because she wanted power. She planned because someone had once made order feel like care.
“She sounds great,” I said.
“She was.”
“Past tense?”
“Six years ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
Amy touched the watch.
“She would have hated the marathon.”
I laughed.
“She sounds smart.”
“She believed running was appropriate only when chased.”
“Also smart.”
The conversation shifted to safer stories: family, Rose’s hatred of scented candles, and my accidental appearance in a children’s dance recital involving umbrellas. Amy’s real laugh filled the booth. I watched the thing I kept trying to earn.
“What?” she asked.
“Nothing.”
“You’re looking.”
“I am.”
Her laughter faded. The awareness returned. No audience. No stage. No reason to perform. Amy’s gaze moved to my mouth. Level Three. Restricted. The server arrived with the check. Amy looked away. I breathed again.
At ten thirty, Amy yawned, denied yawning, and rested her head against the booth.
