“Baklava?” I ask.
“Of course,” he says.
I’m grinning now. I can’t help it.
“You didn’t answer me,” he says.
“I’m sorry. What?”
“Why didn’t you finish it?” he asks again.
“Oh,” I say. “Because I couldn’t.”
“You couldn’t?” he asks.
I shake my head.
“Why?” he asks.
“Because I needed your help.”
“With what?” he asks.
My stomach flutters. “I needed you to tell me how the story ends.”
He nods and takes a few steps towards me. “I see,” he says.
“I didn’t want to write something down and be wrong,” I say. “That would be like tempting fate, you know? Like, if I put it out there, I might jinx it.”
“I didn’t know you were so superstitious,” he says.
“I’m not, really,” I say.
“Is the part about the mystic true?” he asks.
I laugh. “Yeah. That was real.”
“Then I’d say you’re pretty superstitious.”
I shrug. “I guess.”
He looks at me.
“Wait,” I say. “You read the whole thing in one day?”
“I did,” he says.
“Wow.”
“It was the best apology I ever received.”
I chuckle. “Thanks,” I say.
“And the longest,” he says.
I laugh. “Yeah, well. I’m not real good at being succinct.”
We are standing close enough now that I can smell the gyros wafting up from the paper bag into my nostrils. The scent obliterates any idea I might have had of eating that lowly slice of donation-bin-bound pizza waiting for me on the kitchen counter. The gyros smell heavenly.
