“Like a friend you can text. Someone who’ll check onyou.”
“Oh,sure.”
He handed me the phone. “Text ’em. Tell ’em you’re with me, give my name andaddress.”
“I can use myphone.”
“This way your friend’ll have my number. Take my picture, too, if youwant.”
I did it all and sent it to my friend O'Neal Jones. She was a reporter in town, so I figured she’d know what to do with this kind ofinformation.
Whaaaaat? You’re on adate?
Just avisit.
He’scute.
This is hisphone.
So I shouldn’t say he’scute?
Nocomment.
Right. Well, I just got ANOTHER text from last weekend’s date. Number block! Have fun. Call if you need a pickup.
I deleted the exchange and handed him thephone.
“Thanks.”
“Youbet.”
I was standing between the kitchen and an adjoining dining room with a simple, Swedish-looking table and chairs, bar stools pushed under the granite counter separating it from the kitchen, and French doors that opened onto a patio with a cast-iron table and four chairs. There was something calming about a place that wasn’t chock full of junk. I should really go through my apartment and take stuff to the consignment shop. I had books everywhere, tchotchkes from the kids at school, framed pictures of my parents and grandparents. The place was a hoarder’s paradise compared tothis.
“It’s nice inhere.”
“Yeah?”
I realized after a couple of seconds that he was reallyasking.
“Yes. Well it’s huge and sort of super clean, and pretty simple, with lots of natural light.” I made myself see it in a way that I could translate, almost. “It’s a lot bigger than it looks from the outside.” And nicer. Although I didn’t mention that. “The hardwood floor has this darker glow, though, that warms it all up. Along with the sunshine coming in. It keeps it from being toostark.”
“I feel sunshine. Walking in and out ofit.”
“Like mycat.”
“You have acat?”
“Ché.”
“As inGuevara?”
I shrugged. “Maybe. My parents namedhim.”
“Want tosit?”
I turned in a circle. “Where?”
“Patio?”
