“I’ll leave when you give me your number.”
Okay, notquitea profession of love.
He barely has to raise his voice for it to project across the distance, in stark contrast to the veritable shriek of my own voice—but I push through.
“I’m not giving you my number.”
“Then I guess I’m not leaving.”
“Some would call this stalking.”
“Some would call this a public table.”
“Go. Away.”
“You go away. I’m trying to read.”
He turns his back to me and sits down, this time facing away from the window, andpicks up his book.
I grab my ID and hurry out the door. I rush down the stairs, storm up to him, and rip the book out of his hands.
“Oh, good, you’re back,” he says as if nothing is amiss.
Hands spread out on the table, leaning over him, I demand, “Why are you doing this?”
“You’re the one who came up to me,” he says, and I’m not quite sure if he’s talking about earlier or right now.
I sit down across from him. Take one deep breath, then two. He smiles all the while like he’s eating this shit up.
“What do you want?” I ask.
“I told you what I want.”
My number. “You’re not getting it.”
We’re locked in a heated stare, and to my satisfaction, he’s the first to break, with a glance down at my sweater.
“Your lobster pajamas are gone,” he remarks softly. I’m so thrown by the change of topic that I respond on autopilot.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“Probably for the best.” He shrugs. “I’m kind of scared of lobsters.”
“You’re scared oflobsters?” The revelation shocks a laugh out of me.
“Oh, you’re laughing at me. That’s great. I trust you with this confidence—”
“That’s your own fault. I never said you could trust me.”
“I don’t think a fear of lobsters is very funny,” he says with mock seriousness.
“Maybe notfunny—but it’s certainly ridiculous.”
“They’re basically sea spiders. Totally freaky.”
“They’re more like sea scorpions,” I argue.
“Even freakier. I can’t believe people eat those things.”
