Page 92 of Enzo

“You have a picnic?”

“No. I just read.” She breaks a piece of croissant off. “I usually end up buying way too many craft supplies and plants, and sometimes I go and watch a movie.”

“Alone?”

“Yes. Don't you?”

“No. Haven't so far.”

“I play Jenga alone.”

I lower my coffee. “By yourself?”

“That’s what alone generally means.”

I don’t understand. “Jenga—the game with the wooden blocks?”

“Exactly that.”

“How does that work, if you play alone?”

“I build the tower. Then I remove the pieces.”

“But it’s always your turn.”

“That’s one of the advantages.”

“Isn't that a problem, because you know when every piece has been moved because you moved it?”

“But I never know when it's going to fall.”

I almost spit out my coffee. “But ...”

“It's suspense.”

This. This is what makes it fascinating to be around her. I burst out laughing.

She stops eating. “It happened.”

“What?”

“You laughed. Out loud. Like your entire body was cheering you on.”

“It’s not unheard of,” I retort, indignant.

“You've never laughed like that. You usually exhale loudly through your nose. It's not the same thing.”

I sit back, perplexed and amazed at the same time. “You’ve known me for less than a fortnight.”

“And I’m already making important discoveries.”

I can't remember the last time anyone watched me laugh as though it were an accomplishment. Molly treats my laughter as though it’s a rare, fine thing. Something she wouldn't mind hearing again. I find myself wanting to give it to her again.

“What about you?” she asks, helping herself to another croissant. She breaks a piece off and puts it into her mouth. “What do you do for fun?”

“I like to read.”

“Fiction?”