He looks at my wrist, then at my mouth. "I think you'd look good in it."
"Should I buy it?"
"Are you going to wear it?"
"Probably not."
"Then no."
I laugh and it feels strange and wonderful, the sound echoing in the empty store. "You're very practical."
"One of us has to be."
We wander through a home goods store and I pick up ridiculous things, a throw pillow shaped like a cactus, a mug that says "I'm silently correcting your grammar," a set of coasters that look like miniature pizzas.
"You're not buying any of this," Enzo observes.
"I don't want to buy it. I just want to look at it and remember that the world has ridiculous objects in it." I pick up the cactus pillow again. "Although this is kind of charming."
"It's a cactus."
"It's a pillow cactus. There's a difference."
"Is there though."
"You have no sense of whimsy."
"I have plenty of whimsy. I just direct it toward useful things."
"Like what?"
"Like making sure you don't buy a pillow shaped like a plant."
I laugh again and he smiles, small and genuine, and we keep walking.
In a clothing store I find a section of scarves and I'm running my fingers over the silk when he stops beside me.
"That one," he says, pointing to a dark, emerald green.
"Why that one?"
"It matches your eyes."
I pick it up and hold it against my skin and he's right, it does.
"You're observant."
"Only about things that matter."
The way he says it makes my stomach flip.
I drape the scarf around my neck and turn to face him. "How does it look?"
He's quiet for a moment, just looking at me, and something in his expression shifts.
"It looks good," he says, and his voice has dropped lower. "But I think it would look better somewhere else."
"Where?"
