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She was fine just a minute ago. I don’t know why she’s crying. I want to comfort her physically, but I don’t dare. It’s forbidden by the goddesses, and I think inappropriate in American culture as well as we don’t know each other, so instead, I say, “My mother always said crying with a friend lessens the hurt.”
“Thank you. I don’t know why I’m crying. I’m sorry.”
“You can’t be responsible for emotions. They just happen.”
Ivy looks up at me with the same expression she gave me when I told her she could remain with me on the Des.
I want to wipe away a tear with my thumb, but I resist.
“Thank you,” she says.
“No problem,” I reply, wishing I had a better command of English for this moment, but then it passes. After a few minutes of silence, we reach a busy intersection, and I ask her, “Now, which direction do we walk? I hardly know this city.”
“No, I meant ‘thank you’ for punching Scott. Twice.”
“Oh well, had I known what he did to you, I would’ve done a lot more.” I push my fingernails into my palm to keep my anger at bay. I consider Ivy to be mine already; even if she decides not to marry me, I will always protect her.
“I wish there were more men like you in the world,” she says as if I’m an anomaly.
My hand automatically goes to my chest to check if I’m wearing my Dulu holo to mask my appearance, and I momentarily freeze when I realize I’m not wearing it. Then I remember that it’s Halloween and I don’t have to wear it. I’m in a costume for the purpose of meeting her as I really am. How can this woman make me forget such a simple thing?
“This way,” she says, pointing down a lively street, bringing me back into the moment.
We walk along the busy sidewalk. I make sure that she’s on the inside, away from the road. There are lots of people out in all kinds of costumes, and the night has a very festive atmosphere. I try to make conversation. “Are you from New Orleans?”
“Yes, born and raised.”
“Do you study or work?” I have never been a good liar, so I hope that she doesn’t make me ask lots of questions but rather just tells me about herself.
“I work as an elementary school teacher. What about you?”
“I’m in security.”
“Oh, that explains a lot. Not many men fight without getting unbelievably angry.”
“What do you mean?”
“You were completely calm and in control when you struck Scott.”
“Oh,” I reply, relieved. Showing anger is one of the most unattractive traits in an Alliance man.
“What kind of security do you work in? Do you guard a consulate? Or are you a rent-a-cop?”
I don’t know what a ‘rent-a-cop’ is, but it doesn’t sound good. “I’m in the military. I travel a lot.”
“But you’re not American, are you?”
“No.”
“You’re not very talkative either?”
“I’m from Sweden.” I leave out that it’s a human identity I took because the people are known to be big and tall like me from that area of Earth.
“I figured. The phone number, the accent.”
“What accent?” I think I speak English reasonably well. Everyone seems to always understand me.
“Overall, your English is good, but sometimes you have an odd word choice or slight accent.”
