"I want to ask you something," she says.
"Go ahead."
"This morning in the alley you said you couldn't stop thinking about me because I didn't flinch. Tonight you said the same thing a different way. I want to ask you, plainly, if the reason you're sitting across from me is because I’m some kind of novelty to you."
I set the sandwich down and wipe my fingers on a napkin. I look at her across the table and find that I don’t want to play the long, slow game tonight. I want her to know, in the plainest sense of knowing, who I am. She asked me what I do and I told her. She asked me why she's sitting here and I told her. She deserves the rest.
"No," I say.
"Are you sure about that?" she asks. It’s the first time I’ve seen something other than disapproval or sarcastic disbelief on her face. This looks very close to sadness.
"Yes."
"Think about it before you answer."
"I don’t need to think about it. A novelty is a thing you pick up once, and get bored of quickly. You aren’t a thing I’ve picked up. You’re a woman I saw clearly for less than six minutes in the back of a car, and what I saw was something I didn’t know I needed. You are the person I have been looking for my whole life."
The words surprise me almost as much as they do her. I knew I had developed a need to see her again, an urge to make sure she wasn’t some kind of figment of my imagination, or the result of a concussion.
But now I know it’s more than that, and I found out at the exact same time as she did.
She sets her napkin down.
"I need to clear my head," she says as she grabs her coat and bag and slides out of the booth.
I stand while she pulls her coat on, pulling out my wallet and dropping a fifty on the table. She swings her purse over her shoulder and heads for the door.
