Ayanna had been talking to him about a book she was reading about the Ming treasure voyages. Every time she read about any expedition, she couldn’t stop thinking about traveling for months just to get to one place and knowing it was a place where you would probably die. Wasn’t it a miracle anyone was alive? How could people write books about these voyages and write dull email-style sentences? Treasure hunting was, to put it lightly, problematic, but she was there for the thrill of it.

“I’ve been talking about this book for ten minutes max,” Ayanna said. She was never comfortable reflecting on their years together.

He ignored her attempt to push away sentimentality. “Us.” He pointed at himself, then her. “This, bobo.”

They had taken to calling each other “bobo” because Ayanna could not stop watching a clip of one of her favorite soccer players saying “Que miras, bobo.” A friend had told them it was the equivalent of calling someone “dummy.” It always made her laugh because it felt like the most perfect word for dummy and it was funny to hear Felix—someone who people always described as kind or gentle—call her a dummy in Spanish.

“Ayanna, you’re my best friend.”

The tone in his voice made her pay more attention. She set her fork down.

“Let’s get married,” he said.

On her plate was still a chunk of quiche crust and a few errant peas. The espresso machine sounded like it was going to explode. I can’t promise anything, she thought. She wished the bakery were playing music, something she could use to pretend she couldn’t hear what was being said.

“We’ve been together for over a decade.” He reached across the table for her hand. “And I want to make it clear, you don’t have to answer. And I could do it more formally. And I know that you have complicated—”

“Can we talk about this somewhere else?”

He nodded. Felix stood up, went to the counter to pay, and came back with a bag. Ayanna knew inside it would be the strawberry-lemon-basil scone she had been coveting and a piece of carrot cake with tahini buttercream frosting. Outside, without talking about it, they walked toward the park they liked to go to after eating at the bakery. A dad was walking around with his son draped over his shoulders and holding on to his head. The boy kept raising his hands up to pull and push on leaves. Gourmet Harvest’s parking lot was packed. A white man with dreadlocks was playing the guitar beautifully and singing in an off-key voice that made everything seem like a terrible premonition. A spirit bobbed near his open guitar case. It was maybe the only one enjoying the music.

At the park, Felix turned toward Ayanna, and immediately apologized. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have done that.”