Page 59 of Woman on the Verge

“Find anything interesting?”

“No. You’re incredibly boring.”

“Guilty,” he says.

He sets the plastic bags of food on the counter, begins unpacking the Styrofoam containers.

“Can I help with anything?” I ask.

“You can finish your glass of wine so I can pour you another.”

I comply, taking my seat at the table.

“I don’t understand why you’re single,” I say. I’ve been thinking it and figure I may as well just come out with my thoughts. I have nothing to lose. This can be an experiment in radical authenticity.

“You sound like my mother,” he says.

“It really doesn’t make sense. There must be something drastically wrong with you that I haven’t discovered yet.”

“I’m sure there are lots of things wrong with me.”

He takes scoops from each container and puts them on a plate, then brings it to me. Then he makes his own plate and sits at the table.

“Your last relationship—with the pediatrician—ended last year?”

“Good memory. And yes. About a year ago.”

“And you were together a long time?”

“Couple years.”

I’m not sure why I’m asking all this, why I’m getting to know him better. Maybe I’m hoping I’ll lose interest if I learn more about him.A crush is just a lack of information—I saw that meme making the rounds on Instagram recently. But there is also the risk I’ll fall for him more.

“And nobody since?”

“Just you,” he says.

“Hmm.”

“That bothers you?”

“Just hard to believe. No sex for a year?”

“Until you,” he says. Then: “What about you?”

I take a bite. “This is really good,” I say.

“I know. And I’m glad you agree. But don’t change the subject.”

“I don’t want to talk about me,” I say.

“You are a tough nut to crack, aren’t you?”

“Did you just call me a nut?”

We laugh, and he doesn’t press further, and we enjoy the food, and it feels strangelynormal, like we do this all the time. It’s how I felt at the breakfast place last weekend. If I was someone who believed in past lives, I would wonder if we’d been lovers in another era. But I am not someone who believes in much of anything.

“The woman in the photo with you,” I say. “Is that your mother?”