“There. Now, don’t you feel better?” he asks. It isn’t lost on me that he doesn’t deny my assumption.
“A little,” I admit. “And for the record, you don’t have to worry about me falling into you again in the future. I’m typically not a clumsy person. I’m actually very agile.”
“I wouldn’t dream of questioning your agility.”
“It’s just that I thought I saw my ex right before I bumped into you, and I guess that somehow interfered with my spatial reasoning.”
“Really?” Matt asks, sounding surprisingly interested. He cranes his neck to look around the café. “Is he still here?”
“He’s gone,” I quickly tell him. “It wasn’t even him. I just think I see him sometimes.”
He gives me an inquisitive look at my admission, and I can tell he’s trying to figure me out. Good luck with that. If I’m a puzzle, then seventy-five percent of my pieces are lost under a couch somewhere, covered in dust and crumbs.
“So your ex just pops up from time to time like a ghost? Does that mean you have unfinished business?”
I can’t be certain if his question is genuine or if he’s trying to set me up for a dig, but either way I don’t take the bait.
“No offense,” I tell him, “but I’d rather not set the stage for an existential discussion with you. Something tells me your views on love are apocalyptic at best.”
“Post-apocalyptic, but never mind that. Can I see a picture of him?”
His expression is almost boyish and I’m instantly suspicious. “Why would you want to see a picture of my ex?”
“I’m curious,” he says simply.
I consider it for all of two seconds. “No, I’m not showing you a picture of him.”
“Fine, don’t show me.” He leans his elbows on the table, looking off in the distance, and for some childish reason it gets under my skin. I pause for several moments before I pull my phone out of my bag with a huff. I don’t want to show him any of my personal pictures, so I open Greg’s Instagram page instead.
“Here.”
Matt takes the phone and inspects the images. “I don’t like him,” he says.
“Color me shocked.”
He looks more closely at the screen, then angles the phone away to get an alternative view. “His eyes are off-putting. He looks like a creepy Victorian doll you’d find in a boarded-up attic.”
“Greg’s eyes are his best feature, you monster.” I’d love to say my rebuke isn’t defensive, but it absolutely is.
“And his name isGreg,” he scoffs. “Irredeemable. Though, considering he’s a murderous marionette, I guess it fits.”
“Okay, show-and-tell is over.” I go to pull the phone away, but Matt leans to the side, keeping it just out of my reach.
“Wait. Can I see your profile, too?”
“Why?” I ask.
“Because I think it will help me to understand you better. Plus, I want to see how your pictures compare to Greg’s. His level of commitment to hiking photos is staggering.”
I slump in my chair and weigh the pros and cons. Granting his request should at least keep him entertained until my apology coffee arrives, so I eventually concede. “Check, then,” I say.
He clicks the icon to return to my profile, which is currently signed in to my personal, private account, and not my public design page where I feature my work.
“Tell me,” Matt says after a few seconds of scrolling. “Did you always share your account with your cat, or did it evolve into this over time?”
“It’s been a mutual endeavor since the beginning,” I assure him. “Theodore may be my sister’s cat, but he and I are essentially one being.”
“Clearly,” he says. “He’s an American shorthair?”
