"Knowing the roads does not change the physics of bald tires on ice." He says it so matter-of-factly, like he's explaining basic mathematics to a child. "I will drive you home."
It's not a question. It's not even a request. It's a statement of fact, delivered in the same tone he probably uses to order omelet, like he's already decided what's going to happen and I'm just a variable in an equation he's solving.
"That's really kind," I say, and I'm using my customer-service voice now, the one that sounds polite and agreeable but actually means ‘no, thank you’. "But I'm fine. Really. I appreciate the concern, but I drive this road every day, and it's really not—"
"You drive that road every day on tires that would not pass inspection in any country I have lived in."
His accent thickens when he's frustrated, I realize. The consonants get harder, more deliberate, and suddenly I'm very aware that English is not his first language, that he's choosing these words carefully, that he's trying to make me understand something.
"And I have lived in countries with very low standards."
I don't know if I'm supposed to laugh or be offended or what, but something in my chest does that warm, dangerous thing again—the thing I've been trying very hard not to name, the thing that feels like the moment right before you realize you're falling.
"I appreciate that," I say slowly, "but I really can't—I mean, I don't even know you, and—"
"You’ve been watching me for thirty-six days."
My jaw drops.
"I was not—that's not—I was just—" I'm stammering now, which is mortifying, but he's looking at me with this expression that's somewhere between amused and serious, and I can't tell which one is winning. "You're a customer. I watch customers. That's part of my
job—"
"You do not watch the other customers the way you watch me."
"That's—how would you even know that?"
"Because I have been watching you watch me."
I kinda saw that coming, but oh, to hear him actually say it...
Aaaaargh.
He's been watching me watch him, which means he noticed me noticing him, which means I'm even more pathetic than I thought, and I want the parking lot to open up and swallow me whole.
"I have to go," I say, and I'm backing toward my car now, keys clutched in my hand like a weapon. "Thank you for the concern about my tires. That's very—it's nice. But I'm fine. Really."
"You will not be fine if you slide off the road into a ditch." He takes a step toward me, and I take a step back, and we're doing this dance now, this careful choreography of advance and retreat.
"Why do you even care?" The words come out before I can stop them. "You don't know me. We've never even had a real conversation. You just—you come in and eat breakfast and—"
"And count."
I stop backing up. "What?"
"I come in and eat breakfast and count." He says it simply, like it's obvious. "Thirty-six days. Same as you."
"I don't—I wasn't—"
"You were." His mouth does that thing again, that almost-smile that's more suggestion than reality. "You counted ceiling tiles.I counted the seconds between when I arrived and when you would look at me. Forty-three seconds, on average. Sometimes faster if the café was busy. Sometimes slower if you were avoiding me."
I can't breathe.
He noticed. He counted. He paid attention to the exact same meaningless details I paid attention to, which means—
What does it mean?
"I have to go," I say again, and this time I mean it. I turn toward my car, unlock it with shaking hands, reach for the door handle.
