Page 93 of Enzo

I wrinkle my nose.

“Work-related books?”

“Sometimes.”

She breaks off another piece of croissant, then slathers some butter over it. “That's homework.”

I adjust the cuff of my shirt. “I also exercise.”

“That's torture.”

She has a delightful, if insane, way of looking at things. “I also follow the markets.”

She nods.

“I like to travel.”

“For work?”

“Usually.”

She sits back. “That's a lot of work.”

She's summed me up like a textbook. I must come across as boring and dull to someone like her.

“I also enjoy good food.”

“You do?” she asks, as if she doubts me. “Because I’ve only seen you pick at your food.”

“I still enjoy the bits I pick.” Why am I suddenly feeling defensive?

“That's the first rung of Maslow's hierarchy of needs, not good food but still ... it’s food.”

“Maslow?” She knows about Maslow?

“Yes.” She sees my surprise immediately. “What? You thought kindergarten teachers only know about finger painting and how to stop children from eating glue?”

I shift uncomfortably in my seat. She saw right through me, right through to my bias. I stare at her.

Nothing about this woman fits neatly into the categories I keep trying to put her in. She wears blindingly bright clothes, talks to complete strangers, and plays Jenga alone as if it's normal.

I can be an arrogant ass sometimes, but now I’m ashamed of myself.

“Sorry.”

She breaks off a piece of her croissant, and chews slowly. A few moments pass. I keep my mouth shut.

“I always liked school, and studying, and finding out more about things. I was lucky enough to get scholarships and financial aid so that I could go to college. Once there I worked every job I could squeeze in around classes. I came out with some debt, but I got my degree in early childhood education, and that was all I cared about. I love teaching kindergarten.”

I’m reminded of our astronaut conversation back in Venice. Of the casual way I dismissed the idea when she told me she could have been an astronaut, and the way she challenged me.

What a jerk I must have seemed.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“For what?”

“For being surprised. I shouldn’t have been.”