Here comes the driver. 4:16. He’s got a thermos in one hand, papers tucked negligently under the other arm (maybe it’s the schedule). A graying trapezoidal moustache, bloodshot hazel eyes above puddled pouches. If he falls asleep, it will turn out that escaping on the bus equals escaping under it, a fine irony. He slewfoots down the aisle wheezing, checking tickets. Looks at hers, grunts. “Seattle.”
A theme, apparently. “You are correct.”
“Long way.”
“So I’ve been informed.”
“Family out there?”
She stares at him. He likely means no harm. Blathering in the wee hours, one loner to another. “No.”
He moves on.
They leave the station at 4:23. Ten blocks of unloved Cleveland shudder by, then they hit the ramp for I-90. 423 is not a prime number, but 421 is. If he hadn’t indulged his curiosity about her family life, they could have left two minutes earlier.
She closes her eyes, hoping sleep will come.
She spent half an hour Saturday night trying to figure out how to look. Black lipstick or white, bomber jacket or army anorak, shitkickers or sneakers, red pants or black. She has never worn earrings or nose rings or anything like that. Her hair is bottle-black because, shit, she doesn’t know, because it’s been that way for years, because otherwise it’s her mother’s color, because when it’s greasy it’s glossy, because in the dark you can’t see it. She looked in her mother’s mirror and didn’t know if she should be feeling satisfaction or self-loathing. All that female body dysmorphia, she hates that shit. Who cares what you look like, stop obsessing over yourself.
Alex had said to her on Wednesday in the glass cube and exposed brick playspace Miles (CEO, brilliant weirdo, dick) called their office, “Hey, dark lady, you free Saturday? Let’s go on a date.”
Alex talks to everyone that way. “Listing tower of manflesh blocking the aisle.” “Want me to get you a latte while I’m out, winsome tidbit?” They say it all deadpan, as though these are the names everyone uses.
She froze. Her brain drowned in stupid scenarios. Alex and her walking in a park, sunlight gamboling. Lying with a bottle of blushing wine on a checkered picnic blanket. The two of them programming together, maybe even rubbing each other’s shoulders.
“You can just nod, turtle bean,” Alex said.
She nodded.
“Seven p.m. I know the perfect place.”
It was in Williamsburg, 1.2 miles from the apartment where she lived with her mother. She walked down in the deepening cold, anorak and shitkickers having won out, plus a mud-green scarf, her only one. The restaurant was Japanese, looked expensive. She had plenty of money, but she never ate out. Alex arrived unhurriedly, twenty minutes late. They came right up to her and kissed her on the cheek, flustering her. “Why are you waiting outside? I made a reservation.” They intertwined their arm with hers. “Let’s scurry.”
The seating was in little booths with bamboo screens that rolled down for privacy. She and Alex took off their coats. Alex gestured her forward and she sat, and instead of sitting opposite, Alex sat next to her. They did the thing with the arm again. “How could anyone come here and not feel romantic?” they said.
She basically couldn’t believe that any of this was happening. Her, on a date! And with the only person in her entire life she’d ever wanted to go on a date with. What were the odds? She had no idea how to behave, so she let Alex do everything, which Alex seemed comfortable doing. The restaurant recommended a variety of eight-course tasting menus, with sake pairings. “Food restrictions?” Alex asked.
“None.”
“Alcohol?”
“Anything.”
“You’re perfect, aren’t you?”
Alex ordered the most expensive course. “This is on me.”
“I have a ton of money—”
“So do I, and you’re my date. Let’s start with a sake tasting, I’ve always wanted to. You’re my excuse.”
On the bus, wishing like death she could sleep, she doesn’t remember much of the talk. It wasn’t a dialogue, Alex talked and she floated in a dreamlike state. Alex touched her hand, stroked her thigh, nuzzled her ear. Little cubes of food came on lanceolate leaves, or in lacquered bowls with wooden spoons. There were miso broths and grilled fishes and curly herbage; jellied rounds, red roe in a cobalt dish, jewel-green snow peas arranged like a fan. The sake came in clear glass bowls that glittered in the candlelight.
“You’re putting me in a mood,” Alex said, and she didn’t know what Alex meant, but liked the sound of their voice when they said it. She liked, disbelieving, the brush of Alex’s lips against her cheek. She liked the way Alex leaned into her at the climax of something they were saying, the press of their shoulder, like a conspiratorial nudge, like saying, Just you and me, and nobody knows.
Alex took pictures of the food, and of the two of them, their arm around her, cheek pressed to cheek so that the two near-side
