The air is thick with the smell of garlic. “Many people think Polaris—the North Star—is the brightest in our sky,” I say, unzipping my jacket to let the warm air in. “But it’s not.”
“It’s not?” Rooney tugs off her hat. Strands of her straight brown hair stand from the static.
I shake my head. “It’s also not as constant as we think, but it is the fiftieth brightest.”
The constellation on her cheek lifts as she smiles. “I don’t know when I can use that, but one day, I’ll find somewhere to.”
We settle into a vinyl booth across from each other. The yellow walls are covered in black-and-white photos, some with signatures in the corners. Cloth is draped in swoops across the ceiling, the entire place glowing a hazy red.
We’re not alone in the restaurant. Two older men strategize over a game of Scrabble and refills of tea. A woman in a yellow safety vest dips a piece of chicken into sauce. In the corner, three college-age students hover over textbooks and their cell phones. It’s energetic in here, despite it almost being midnight.
I skim over sections for soups, fried rice, pork, beef, and shrimp. My eyes wander up to Rooney, who’s reading the menu like it’s a thriller. She’s intensely following the plotline of the menu. My mind wanders back to the print shop. Without the surfboarding NewYorker, I may never have met this amazing person across from me pondering noodle selections at midnight.
“What’s funny?” Rooney asks.
I realize I’ve snorted. “Oh. I’m just impressed by how many fried rice options there are. It’s too hard to choose.”
She eyes me suspiciously. “Right. Should we just do table dumplings?”
I rescan the menu, looking for what she’s referencing.
“It’s not on the menu,” she adds.
I look at other customers’ dishes. “Then how do you know they can make it?”
Rooney laughs. “It’s just a double order of pan-fried dumplings. For the table. We’ll share.”
I flip the laminated page of the menu. “We’re going to share dumplings?”
“We’ll also share the soy sauce. If that’s okay?” she asks.
I can’t remember the last time I shared a plate of food with someone. It feels intimate. “Okay. Sure. Good with me.”
Rooney lets the waitress know our order while I pour jasmine tea for both of us into little white porcelain cups.
“By midnight, I’m usually sleeping,” I admit, setting down the stainless-steel teapot.
“Yeah. In New York City, even when you’re at home and everything is quiet, you always know you can go somewhere, anywhere, and find another human being.” Rooney slides her teacup closer. “Sure, it’s the city that never sleeps, et cetera, et cetera. But you get to claim your corner of the city where and when you want it. Early morning, the middle of the night. On any day of the week. There are no rules. Does that terrify you?”
I grin. “I would rather have a routine during my preferred times of day.”
“On days like today, how long will it take you to readjust now that you’re off schedule?” she asks.
“I can usually course-correct within twelve hours.”
Rooney snaps her fingers. “I had you pegged at nine.”
“Ten when I’m feeling particularly motivated,” I say playfully.
“I can imagine a routine being nice,” she says. “Like the idea of having a coffee shop where they know your order. The city can sometimes feel isolating, but you’re never truly alone. I’m sure even in LA this is true. People are always somewhere.”
I attempt a very serious face. “You’re right. Peoplearealways somewhere.”
Rooney laughs. “Are you taking notes over there? I spew gold at this time of night.” She goes quiet for a moment. “So I was thinking about something.”
“What’s that?” I ask, taking a big gulp of tea.
“How fate comes into play in love and work for me, and the ways you wanted to test fate,” she says. “I materialize it in my own way, and you, what was the word you used? You operationalize it. Basically, we’re both just trying to understand fate in our own ways. And I think that’s beautiful.”
