“There are plenty of those, and they all look and dress like me. We all shop at the same stores, work in similar jobs . . . It can be incredibly hard to distinguish them from everyone else, and many of them are so subtle in their aggression that you don’t know you’re a target until you’re already down for the count.” He studies his picture for a moment, his forehead creasing as if he’s in the middle of solving a puzzle.

“I spend all day, every day,” he says, somewhat distractedly, “trying to peel back the layers, trying to peek behind the curtain, trying to figure out who the people I’m dealing with really are, trying to figure out what they really want and what they really need. It’s a game . . . and I’m not bad at it.” Carefully he writes the word Cries under the picture. “But I get tired,” he continues. “So I go to bars where the people aren’t hiding behind curtains pretending to be Oz. I go to places where the patrons dance around with rainbow-colored hair or snarl behind grizzled beards.” He writes the word in. “I go to places where I know exactly who and what I’m dealing with at all times.” He smiles to himself as he finishes the title of his art with the word Rebuke. Cries in Rebuke. “At Ivan’s, that’s the way it is.” He suddenly looks up from his picture and meets my eyes before adding, “I’ve always known who I’m dealing with at Ivan’s . . . except when it comes to you.”

My mouth rises into a one-sided smile. “I’m the only one at Ivan’s you couldn’t figure out, so I’m also the only one you took home. You say you don’t like complications, but”—I lift my drink, take another sip—“I think the lady doth protest too much.”

Lander laughs and now catches the waiter’s eye, letting him know it’s all right to approach. “Are you a fan of Shakespeare?”

“I know a few of his plays.”

The waiter takes our orders. For himself, Lander gets the escolar appetizer and fettuccine as an entrée, then he orders for me, a spring pea salad and branzino, before topping it off with a rather expensive bottle of wine to share.

“So you’re an artist?” I ask and take another long sip of my cocktail.

“I doodle,” he says quickly. He briefly holds up the picture, giving me just a few seconds to examine it before folding it up and tucking it into his pocket. It’s as if he’s suddenly embarrassed to have it in the open, as if he hadn’t thought I’d notice what he was doing.