“How did this get so dark?” I asked Lisette.
“We kept yes, and-ing each other. This is the world’s most long-distance improv practice,” said Lisette, grinning as she read Paul’s response. “Hold on, we need to pose like you’re about to dump me in the water.”
“I can do a selfie of that,” I offered. I held the phone up while Lisette sagged in my arms.
A man paused nearby to watch. He had been walking a tiny dog and looked a little horrified. “Sir?” Lisette said. “Can you take a photo of us and make it look like I’m a murder victim?”
Late on Sunday night, my doorbell rang. I ran down the stairs, assuming that it was Lisette there to grab something from my backpack that she’d forgotten, but it was Paul, standing in front of me looking amused and tired. He seemed like he had come straight here from the airport.
“Hey,” he said softly. “I just wanted to make sure that the two of you actually made it through today alive.” I noticed he was checking on me and not with Lisette.
“Well, Lisette didn’t make it, but I had a lovely day.”
“You got some sun,” he said.
He gave a sleepy, remote smile, leaning against the door frame, and I had the same feeling again. This is it, I thought. He’s finally going to kiss me. I waited. Neither of us moved for a moment.
Then I looked away to cover my nerves. “Conference was okay?”
He nodded. “Yeah, it was good. It’s for educators. Professional development. I learned a lot about teaching twentieth-century political history, which would be more useful if I end up teaching high school. I’m sure it sounds really boring, but just the way people approach introducing things like fascism, it was amazing.”
“I don’t find you boring, Paul.”
He looked serious again, and I took a tiny half-step forward. He looked down at my shoes.
“So when do you go home?” he said quietly.
“To New York?”
He nodded. I met his gaze.
“I’m staying as long as I can, but realistically, August 31st. Unless the Canadian government steps in and hands me a visa, but that’s hard to predict. I’m still paying for my apartment in Brooklyn, so I would eventually have to give that up, or at least sublet it, and I can’t really do that without having a way to work here, which I’m not sure I’m allowed to do.”
“Right,” he said. “Right. Well, I um…here.” He took out a greeting card from his pocket and handed it to me. It was blank inside, but it had Mike Myers as Austin Powers on the front, with the words, “Oh, behave.”
I smiled, feeling a little confused. “Thanks.”
“That was your first crush, wasn’t it? I saw it and thought of you.”
“True.” I examined the card. “A Canadian who did sketch comedy. I had terrible taste in men.”
“Clearly,” he agreed. His eyes were warm again. I waited, but he didn’t move.
“I hope they had a Geena Davis one for you,” I added lightly.
“Dark-haired sassy American.”
I waited. We were flirting, weren’t we?
“So Thursday night. Improv practice. My place,” he said at last, as if collecting himself. “I’m looking forward to it.”
“I’ll work on that French mime bit, see if it could be a longer sketch.” My heart was pounding. “That one was really working.”
“Can’t wait.” He turned to go.
Well, that’s it, I figured. I’ve been giving him openings, and he hasn’t been taking them. He just wants to flirt. Maybe it’s some kind of protective field while he’s still getting over his ex. Heck, maybe this is why his ex-wife left, for all I know. Because he was flirting with everyone, and she couldn’t take it anymore.
Whatever I was expecting when I came to improv practice that Thursday, it wasn’t that we were going to kiss each other.
