Page 38 of Wrong Number Right Doctor

I point my fork at him. “Rude.”

“Accurate.”

“You enjoy that word too much.”

“Yes.”

I take another bite so I don’t laugh.

The problem is, it’s easy. Not simple. Nothing about this is simple. But talking to him is easy in a way I didn’t expect. There are spaces in the conversation, but they don’t feel empty. He doesn’t rush to fill them. He says less than most people, but somehow, I keep giving him more.

I know small things about him now.

He can’t cook. He has a regular Thai place. He works too late. He doesn’t use ten words when three will do. He teaches like he expects me to keep up, and somehow that makes me want to.

The table is small enough that I don’t notice, at first, how often we keep reaching for things at the same time. The water. The serving spoon. The edge of the menu. His fingers brush mine once, then again, and neither of us moves away as quickly as we should.

The third time, I look up.

He’s already looking at me.

“Sorry,” I say, though I am not.

“No,” he says, and his thumb shifts once against the side of my finger before he lets go.

It is nothing. It’s barely contact. It’s completely harmless, I tell myself, except my whole body is suddenly paying attention.

“You’re not what I expected,” I say.

“What did you expect?”

“Older,” I say and regret the word as soon as it’s out.

“You’ve never been out with an older man, I assume,” he says, leaning back.

“This isn’t a date,” I say quickly. I want to add, is it? But control myself.

“It isn’t,” he says. I can’t tell if it’s a question or a statement. “I’m sorry to disappoint you.”