That evening, I went to North and Pine just before closing. The front windows reflected the fading street, and Maya stood behind the counter counting receipts with a pen tucked into her hair. “We’re closed,” she said when the bell rang, and I told her I knew the owner. She informed me the owner was difficult, but the corner of her mouth moved when I locked the door and turned the sign around.
I rested my hands on the counter and told her she had been right. The friendship had already changed, and pretending otherwise wasn’t protecting either of us. “I want to date you,” I said, then made myself finish before she had to ask: “Exclusively, and on purpose.” Maya watched me for a moment, as if checking whether another careful qualification was about to arrive and undo the sentence.
“With full awareness that I occasionally sing to sourdough starters?” she asked. I said yes, and when she asked what happened if it became difficult, I told her we would talk. She narrowed her eyes at my attempt to suggest we might simply talk louder, and I corrected myself: like adults, honestly, before either of us had to turn uncertainty into an emergency. Her shoulders lowered a little, and I realized I had spent the last two minutes watching her wait for me to give myself an escape.
