“Good night,” she says.
“Good night,” I agree.
We sit in comfortable silence for a moment, the city moving past the windows. I’ve started to view it as home. It happened so gradually I’m not even sure when I started to feel like that here.
“Iris cried,” I say.
“Iris always cries,” she says. “She’d cry at a supermarket opening if it was sufficiently well presented.”
“She told me something in Swedish when she got in the taxi.”
Elida keeps her eyes on the window. “I heard.”
“You’re not going to tell me what it means.”
“I’m really not.”
I think about the first time I saw her in Minnesota. How far that is from here.
“Sports couple of the year,” I say.
“What?”
“There’s a category. I saw it in the program. Sports couple of the year. It would suit us, don’t you think?”
“I hope we never win that.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s tacky.”
“It’s not tacky.”
“Matching outfits, Mateo. They always do matching outfits.”
“We’d look good in matching outfits.” I say it solemnly, teasing her.
“We definitely would not. I have standards.”
“I think Iris would back me up with this. She’d love the challenge.”
“Iris has taste!” she exclaims, laughing. “Matching outfits at a sports awards ceremony is not tasteful. That’s a cry for help.”
I consider this. “What if they were very good matching outfits?”
“Define very good.”
“Well dressed,” I say. “But like - thrown together. Like we just happened to coordinate.”
She smiles. “You’ve thought about this.”
“I’ve thought about it a little,” I admit. “Well, since I saw the category in the program.”
“That was three hours ago.”
“I’ve been thinking about it for three hours,” I say. “The aesthetic. Well dressed, slightly chaotic, clearly very busy and important, always rushing into taxis.”
She’s trying not to laugh and failing.
