Outside her building, I put the car in park and turned off the engine. The sudden quiet made every small movement feel louder: the click of her purse clasp, her sleeve against the door, the engine settling beneath the hood. “You’re really not going to answer?” she asked, looking down at the dashboard. I told her tomorrow, and she held two fingers an inch apart and asked whether I could give her a little answer now.
“Maya,” I said, and the seriousness in my voice finally stopped her. She looked at me, and for a moment I could see how much courage the question had taken, even with the wine helping. “You matter too much to me for this conversation to happen when you’ve had four glasses and accused a coat rack of following you.” Her mouth moved faintly before she said, “It looked suspicious,” but the joke barely covered the hurt in her eyes.
