"Like... what specific kind of birds?"
"All of them."
He's trying not to laugh. I can see it in the way his mouth twitches.
"Don't laugh," I warn.
"I'm not laughing."
"You're about to."
"I'm not—" He breaks, laughing so hard he has to set his coffee down. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. It's just... birds?"
"They're unpredictable! And they have those beady little eyes and they're always plotting something."
"Plotting?"
"Yes. Plotting."
He's still laughing, and I shove his shoulder. "Your turn. Tell me something weird about you, besides the fact that you catalogue passwords like some people notice changes in temperature.”
He throws his head back and laughs. "Guilty."
Then he pauses, thinking. "Actually. No one knows this. But I can't whistle."
"What?"
"I can't whistle. Never got it down."
"Everyone can whistle."
"I can't."
"Try."
He purses his lips and blows air. Nothing comes out except a sad little whooshing sound. Now I'm the one laughing. "Oh my god. That's tragic."
"I know."
"Have you tried to learn?"
"Many times. I've accepted my fate."
I giggle. "This is the saddest thing I've ever heard."
"Sadder than your bird phobia?"
"Way sadder. I can keep that a secret unless I want to share it. But you couldn't whistle for a cab in New York City."
We both crack up and then sit grinning at each other like idiots. This is what I wanted. Not the fancy dinners or the grand gestures. Just this. Sitting on a bench, drinking overpriced coffee, laughing about stupid things.
"Come on," he says, standing and offering me his hand. "Let's go find you some lunch that won't attract any plotting birds."
I take his hand and let him pull me up. "You're never going to let me live that down, are you?"
"Absolutely not."
We spend the rest of the afternoon wandering, through the market, down to the sculpture park, along the waterfront. We share a basket of fish and chips and people watch, which he's very good at. I like spending time with him. He's fun.
