“Thanks for coming.” For the first time, I notice there’s a woman sitting on the bench closest to us. She’s got a travel mug in one hand and her phone in the other, and she’s staring at Reid with her mouth slightly open, which is probably what I would be doing if I were in her position and was seeing him for the first time. He doesn’t seem to notice, but still I say, “Want to walk?” and I’m relieved when he nods, lifting an arm in a gesture that tells me to go ahead. Maybe the woman behind us sighs.

“So,” I say, trying to squeeze right into that casual “Hey” he offered me. “How’s your weekend been?”

He looks over at me, blinks once. He is definitely not going to dignify small talk with a response. I might as well have asked him which sexually transmitted diseases he’s been tested for.

“Mine’s been okay,” I continue, as though he’s answered me. “Of course, it rained all day yesterday, so I didn’t get out much. Pretty nice out here today, though.”

If Sibby were here, she would remind me that talking about the weather in this way is functionally the same as having “I’m a Midwesterner” tattooed onto my face. For my next trick, why not bring up a garage sale I heard about? Or perhaps point out that I got the bag I’m carrying at a fifty percent off sale, with an extra five percent deducted for a temperamental zipper? Would Reid be interested in knowing my opinions on mayonnaise versus Miracle Whip?

“You mentioned you had an idea,” Reid says, and he is obviously not referring to the mayonnaise-Miracle Whip thing.

I clear my throat, committed to dispensing with the small talk for both our sakes. “Right. Right, well. I was thinking about what you said last week. About there not being signs for you here?”

I slide my eyes his way. His hands are in his jacket pockets. His head is tipped down. He’s listening, but he’s keeping his distance about it.

“Well, signs are sort of . . . my thing. Given my job and all, I’m always interested in signs—what they say, how they say it.”

He stops, and I’m a half step ahead before I pause, too, turning to look back at him. His face is so serious, the kind of face that should be stamped on a coin.

“I was not speaking literally.” I think the slight softness to his voice is sympathy. Dear Diary, I imagine him writing later. Today I met a woman wearing too many buttons who does not understand what a metaphor is.

“No, I mean . . . of course, I realize that. But when I first moved here, the actual signs, they sort of, um”—I look out toward the Manhattan skyline, all its huge gray-and-glass chaos—“they organized my experience.”