And she is (annoyingly) reluctant to order anything to eat, with the excuse that she isn’t hungry at this time of day. “But we are to have a light meal, according to the directive.” I am speaking gaily, giddily. The wine seems to have gone to my brain. “Shall I order for you, dear?”

Dear. Have I been calling Keisha dear? That has not been my intention.

Keisha frowns, stroking the nape of her neck. Stroking the baby-fine hairs at the back of her head. It isn’t clear that dear has even registered with her, she is distracted by the setting—white linen tablecloth, plate glass window overlooking the river, sunlight scintillant on the river. The River View menu, bound in a kind of quilted white fabric, absurdly large, pretentious, seems to intimidate her too.

Is the woman impressed by me?—I wonder. How crude her husband must be, by contrast. With me.

Of course he is (probably) (much) younger than I.

To prepare for this momentous day, I had my camel’s hair sport coat dry-cleaned for the first time in nine years. (It was last worn at a funeral nine years ago.) I had my (untidy, straggly, thinning) hair washed, trimmed, blow-dried at the Herrontown Barber. My shirt is freshly laundered, properly ironed, with (onyx) cuff links.

Yet Keisha seems scarcely to notice my clothes. She is still glancing worriedly about the restaurant—as if anyone in this restaurant would be likely to know her. In her hoarse voice she asks, “D’you think they will come to meet us? Or maybe they are here now—watching us?”

“Who?”

“The people who—the Society …”

For a moment I have no idea what Keisha is talking about. Then I realize, I should seem as wondering and uncertain as she is. I should certainly not behave as if I know more than Keisha knows about our circumstances. Though of course, by instinct, Keisha defers to me, as male.

I tell her yes possibly. They might. “The letter was indeed somewhat inconclusive. They seem to want to keep it secret. Like the state lottery—who wins. So that people won’t be asking for money from the winners. Or from the Society. Like people on welfare and food stamps …”

People on welfare. Food stamps. A startling tone here. Does Keisha resent people on welfare and food stamps, or has she been people on welfare and food stamps herself?

The waiter has been hovering about our table. He is deferential to me, less certain of Keisha—her status, her relationship to me. Judging from the quality of her “dressy” clothes, she is not a relative, surely.

He is daring to wonder if you are lovers. This woman and you!

A flush comes into my face. Not sure if I am abashed or prideful.

“Come, dear! The Society expects us to order a light meal. It seems to be part of the ritual.”

Reluctantly Keisha agrees to a fruit salad platter. My order is charcuterie et fromage.