Damien says, “I described an incident.”
The bartender says, “He complained.”
I look at Damien. “You complained about me?”
His eyes stay on mine. “I mentioned you.”
“That’s worse,” I say.
He leans back slightly. “Is it?”
“Yes,” I say. “Complaining is at least straightforward. Mentioning sounds strategic.”
Damien lifts his glass. “Then I complained.”
The bartender smiles, satisfied, and leaves us.
I watch her go. “She enjoys you.”
Damien says, “She enjoys being rude to me.”
“That may be the same thing.”
“It often is,” he says.
The ease of it catches me off guard, and not because the banter is clever—clever is easy. Men in wine bars are often clever until the bill arrives or a woman disagrees with them. This is different. He is not trying to win the exchange. He is meeting it. Taking the hit, returning one, watching to see if I can keep pace without asking me to slow down. I can. That is the problem.
Damien glances at the open notebook beside my glass.
“Am I interrupting work?”
“Yes,” I say.
He looks at me. “Should I leave?”
“No,” I say.
The answer comes too quickly.
His eyes hold mine.
My pulse does something foolish, then tries to recover with dignity.
I pick up my wine. “I mean, the work will survive.”
Damien’s mouth curves. “Good.”
“That wasn’t an invitation to look pleased with yourself.”
“I was looking pleased with the work’s resilience,” Damien says.
“Of course.”
“Very important quality in work.”
“And in people,” I say.
His expression shifts slightly.
