“May I sit?”
I look at the chair, then at him. There are several versions of this moment available:
The sensible one, where I say I am working.
The polite one, where I say I am waiting for someone.
The honest one, where I admit I have been aware of him from the second he walked in and would like to know whether conversation with him is as inconvenient as standing next to him at an herb stall had been.
I choose a fourth option.
“You may sit if you can behave,” I say.
He pulls the chair back.
“I rarely can.”
“Then it’s good I said if.”
He sits. Not too close. Not leaning in. Not giving the room something to read too quickly. He places his glass on the table and looks at me with that same direct, assessing attention from the market, only now there is wine between us, evening around us, and no bunch of tarragon pretending to be the issue.
The bartender passes our table and sets down a small plate of olives.
“I didn’t order these,” he says.
The bartender says, “I know.”
He looks at her. “Is this punishment?”
The bartender says, “This is optimism.”
I glance between them. “Do I want to know?”
The bartender looks at me. “Probably not.”
He says, “She overestimates the value of intervention.”
The bartender says, “He underestimates the value of being less difficult.”
I pick up an olive. “I like her.”
He looks at me. “Of course you do.”
The bartender points lightly at Damien.
“You should listen to her. She has better instincts than you.”
Damien says, “She stole my tarragon.”
“I selected the superior tarragon,” I say.
The bartender looks at me with interest.
“That was you?”
I pause. “Do I have a reputation already?”
The bartender says, “He complained about it.”
