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We don’t have much time left. Let’s talk about how we met.
She skims my words quickly and, when she faces me again, I see a hint of sheepishness. It’s but a glimmer, quickly cloaked by a defensive frown.
I’m assuming you don’t want to tell your sister we were strangers until less than twenty hours ago.
No.
And that I destroyed your car.
On the contrary, I want you to tell her exactly that.
Her mouth opens. Another gasp of surprise.
I type:But we’ll adjust the timeline a bit.
The timeline. Not the circumstances?
Exactly.
You are a very strange man.
If she knew how obsessed I already am with her, she would find a darker description than ‘strange’.
Wouldn’t it be better if we met the normal way?
And what is the normal way?
She shrugs. Pauses. Starts typing again. Her reply takes so long I find myself craning my neck to see over her phone screen. Her eyes jut up sharply and I revert back in my seat like a scolded schoolboy.
The air conditioner is turning cold. Is she warm enough? I adjust the dials.
Mosely is back. He’s peeking into Yaya’s window this time. The silence must be concerning to my assistant. That and the time we’re taking. Since we’re going back and forth exchanging messages on our devices, the length of my discussion with Yaya is twice as long.
Again, I remind myself that this method won’t last. I’m determined to learn Yaya’s language.
She finally shows her phone screen to me.
Normal people meet when they run into each other in a coffee shop. The girl spills coffee on the guy and offers to pay for dry cleaning. The guy nervously asks for her number instead. They go on dates. They start texting. Eventually, they share their first kiss in his car after he drives her home. He asks her to be his girlfriend. She says yes. See? Normal.
Interesting. Spilled coffee? A fumbling, nervous suitor? Texting? Wholesome dates?
She’s a romantic.
I like it.
It sounds nothing like the situation that applies to us, but it’s as sweet as she is.
Her message continues.
Or, you know, we can say we met on a dating app.
I smile at that one.
Okay. We met online. But my sister, Lucy, is very sharp. She won’t believe if it’s too much of a lie.
There it is. Two lines in her forehead. Like clockwork.
I take advantage of her thoughtful pause and type my own message.