I dusted pretend dirt off my shoulder, and Perrine rolled her eyes in response. “You are such a dork.” She laughed.

“I know. I really am,” I said.

“What’d they say at work when you walked in without your jacket?” she asked, poking at a pepper with her fork.

“Nothing,” I said, wiping my mouth with the paper napkin that I’d tucked into the collar of my shirt. “We don’t have a formal dress code, you know. So even without my jacket, I’m still the most dressed-up person there. Plus, Eleanor’s the only one who dares to give me crap about what I wear, and she’s out today.”

I’d said a silent prayer of thanks about it too, because a story about me swooping in to help a pretty woman on the subway would be like catnip to her. She’d never let it go.

Perrine laughed at this. “Eleanor’s right.”

“What?” I asked. “I can’t help that I got used to wearing suits to work every day. Besides, it’s just easier. It’s my uniform. Steve Jobs had one. Obama. Hillary Clinton—”

“Okay, okay, I get it.” Her voice was rife with sarcasm. “You’re in the same category as Barack Obama.”

“Thank you,” I replied, crossing my arms in smug satisfaction. “Besides, wouldn’t you have stepped in and tried to help? Helping people is your thing.”

“True.” She nodded in hesitant agreement. “But—and please don’t take this the wrong way—you don’t normally notice someone else’s emotional state.”

“What way am I supposed to take that?” I asked, giving her an offended look.

“I’m not saying you’re not a nice person!” She raised her voice to make her point, and I gave her a smile to let her know my feelings weren’t actually hurt. “I’m just surprised you even looked up from checking your email. Or that you weren’t running a cost analysis of the situation first.”

This got a chuckle out of me, because she wasn’t wrong. I tended to veer into human-calculator territory, overlooking emotions for data, and reason, and logic. And I couldn’t fully explain why I’d done it, why this one time my heart and gut instinct had overruled my brain without my permission.

“So what else?” she asked, and I shrugged, trying to act like there was nothing more to say.

“That’s the story,” I said as I gathered up my trash.

I didn’t tell Perrine about the feeling of the woman’s skin against my fingertips: hot like a sidewalk in the summertime. Or about the way her mouth shifting into a small O shape as she exhaled had needled my gut. I also didn’t mention the story about her peeing herself. I definitely left that out.