And it was true. Ziya found almost everyone and everything to be truly captivating, and was always eager for more. But while she liked to fill her life with different interesting experiences, she had always been more than happy to come back home to Amie.
Ziya turned to look at her, catching her staring. Amie jerked her gaze away, which is hands-down the worst thing to do when you’re trying to pretend that you weren’t staring at someone right after they’ve caught you very clearly staring at them. When Amie dared to glance back over, Ziya had returned to talking to the host, who was looking at Ziya with a very familiar mix of surprise and delight.
They were seated at the same table with the same seats next to the same older couple who looked vaguely like Amie’s grandparents. Amie put in the same order—fettuccine alfredo—and didn’t touch any of the table bread. She had been too nervous on the first day to go for the bread, too preoccupied with her situation to do so on the second, and was now circling back to nervous. After all, their last two dinners were good: Conversation was pleasant, food was fine, and Amie managed not to do anything embarrassing like spill her wine or say, “I’m still in love with you.”
So, clearly, it was in her best interest to keep this meal as close to the previous two as possible.
This turned out to be easier planned than done. Ziya loved to focus in on the smallest mentions of things, so Amie had to work hard not to bring up anything that would send the conversation careening into unexplored terrain.
Her first mistake was bringing upFloat Cityfifteen minutes too early. She said the name of the TV show in passing, realizing too late that Ziya would latch on to the mention.
“Oh my god, have you been keeping up with the new season?” Ziya asked eagerly, her eyes sparkling. “It’s gone so far off the rails, but I kind of love it even more.”
During their previous dinners, Amie had brought upFloat Cityby casually mentioning that she wassobusy with her successful job and numerous social engagements that she just hadn’t the time to start the new season yet. This was, of course, a lie, but she definitely wasn’t going to tell Ziya that the only reason she lovedFloat Citywas because Ziya loved it, and that she couldn’t watch the show without her, and, for that matter, didn’t want to.
Amie could have still gone with the lie. But she was so thrown off by the subject coming up early that all she could muster in the moment was, “Ah … no, I haven’t. Because …”
It’s remarkable how leaving a sentence unfinished can be even more damning than finishing it with the most unbelievable lie imaginable. Because not finishing a sentence allows the listener to fill in the blank with whatever they think the speaker wouldn’t want to say. And as Amie watched the light in Ziya’s eyes dim, she could tell that the assumption being made wasn’t that Amie had too busy a social life to watch television.
“Right. Sorry.” Ziya looked down at her plate, and Amie’s stomach clenched.
It was downhill from there. Amie recalled their server struggling to maneuver their dinners onto the table the last two times. On those days, she and Ziya would hurry to move their glasses out of the way, but Amie’s instinct to help overtook her internal directive to Keep Everything The Same. As a result, she burned herself on Ziya’s plate while trying to help him set it down.
“Let me see,” Ziya said after their server left. She plucked an ice cube from her water glass as Amie rested her stinging fingers on the table between them.
“It’s fine,” Amie said as Ziya applied the ice cube to the burn. She flinched at the sudden cold, then relaxed, appreciating the relief. The stinging subsided, but the warmth remained where Ziya’s fingers were touching hers. The heat crept across her palm and up her arm—
Amie jerked her hand away, the force of her action causing Ziya’s bangles to jingle with alarm.
“Did that hurt?” Ziya asked, withdrawing the ice cube.
“No, that helped, thanks. Sorry. I just …”
Ziya once again filled in the rest of Amie’s sentence. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have—”
Amie began shaking her head. “No, you didn’t do anything wrong—”
“I know, I just … sorry.”
“Don’t be.” Amie was feeling more terrible with each passing second.
The rest of the evening was agonizing. Amie didn’t think it could get any worse until they were outside of the restaurant.
On previous days, they’d hugged goodbye—albeit a little awkwardly—and agreed to hang out again in the near future.
This time, Ziya’s arms were stuck firmly to her sides as she glanced down the street. Her thumbs were rubbing the sides of her fists, a subconscious self-soothing motion she did when she was upset.
“I think …” she started, then stopped. She was still looking away from Amie, and didn’t seem to be in any rush to look back.
This time, it was Amie’s turn to fill in the blank, and she didn’t like what she came up with. But she didn’t know how to protest without sounding pathetic, so she just said, “Yeah.”
Ziya finally looked back, smiling sadly. “Maybe we can try again in a couple months. Give it more time.”
“Yeah,” Amie repeated. Her throat had begun to feel tight, and she hoped Ziya didn’t say anything else that would require her to try to choke out more than a single-word affirmation.
They parted ways soon after that. Amie caught the bus home, where she washed her face, brushed her teeth, changed into pajamas, had a quick cry into her pillow, and fell asleep.
Day 3 I.L.
