We luck out, finding two stools side by side along the shop’s front window, the bar in front of us exactly deep enough for our plates. Despite our general awkwardness together, I’m comforted by the way we competently perform a familiar, casual-dining-out routine: I set my bag on Reid’s stool when he goes to the counter along the wall and grabs us napkins and plastic forks; I straighten our plates and reach an arm down the bar and grab one of the bottles of extra hot sauce that rests there, while Reid makes his way back and distributes his take between us.

Two friends, out for an early dinner. Company.

I finally find an outlet for my face-pressing once we’re settled, forks in hand, bending my head to take in the smells of my food—the best-looking falafel I’ve ever seen, garlicky sautéed carrots, a tomato-and-cucumber salad that I plan to mix with the hummus that’s sitting right beside it. Yum.

“Is your name Megan?” Reid says, interrupting my small ritual. I straighten in my seat and look over at him. He’s got his fork poised right above his plate, as though knowing my full name is really necessary for going forward. I super-hope he isn’t asking so he can do some kind of formal prayer involving me, or else this meal is going to feel extremely weird. Extremely weird-er, I guess.

“Uh. No,” I say, starting the hummus-cucumber-tomato stir-up. I can feel Reid watching me do it, and I’d bet the farm he thinks it’s disgusting. I shrug. “It’s Margaret.”

“Margaret,” he repeats.

“Old-fashioned, I know.” A family name, sort of, though who wants to get into it. I take a bite of my food. Holy smokes. Maybe we should do a prayer. These carrots taste like an orgasm feels.

“I like old-fashioned,” says Reid, and I think about offering up a jokey, flippant “Huge surprise!” in response. But when I look over at him, I see he’s stirring his hummus into his salad, his brow-furrow in full force, and I turn back to my food, letting my hair fall over my shoulder so I can hide my smile.

He’s trying. Trying again.