“I know what you’re thinking,” I said. “I’m open and available now, but come tomorrow I’m going to turn back into the cold, asshole Joe that makes up a bunch of excuses or changes his mind, but I’m not. This is different. I can feel it. Tell me you can feel it.”

She said nothing, and her silence lingered like a stranger hiding behind a door—I didn’t know if it was benevolent or menacing. She turned back to the stove and used a spatula to lift the sandwich out of the skillet. She sliced the sandwich in half on the diagonal, put it on a plate, and handed it to me.

“You don’t want it?”

“I’ll make another one.” She nodded toward the table. “Sit.”

I went and sat down, and the silence resumed while Diego and I watched her make another sandwich. She was slow and careful buttering the bread and slicing two different kinds of cheese, and it took forever. When she finished, she cut her sandwich in half and put it on a plate too. Then she poured us both glasses from a half-empty bottle of Chianti.

She placed the wine bottle in the middle of the table, along with a couple of napkins, and sat across from me. The little yellow flower arrangement from Cal was on the table too, directly between us like a blooming “Yield” sign. I moved it out of the way.

I watched her and she watched me. She had a funny way of eating her sandwich. Instead of biting it like normal, she tore pieces off and put them in her mouth the way a person would eat a croissant. But sometimes she would have to pull the entire length of her arm because the cheese was all melted and gooey and wouldn’t break off, and when that happened, she chuckled quietly.

After we both finished our sandwiches and were sipping our wine, I said, “The performance tonight. The cage. What was it really about?”

She smirked like she knew exactly what I was asking her and said, “The beauty of art is that it can be about whatever you want it to be about.”

She poured the rest of the wine into my glass.

“Come over here,” I said. “I want to show you something.”

I pulled out my phone and waited while she took a sip of her wine, wiped her hands on her napkin, and moved to the chair beside me.

“Remember when you asked me what my favorite word was?”

She nodded, setting her elbow on the table, her chin in her palm, a small smile still flickering on her face.

“I’ve been keeping a list,” I told her.

She pulled her chair closer and leaned against me so she could see over my shoulder. I could smell the clean, coconut scent of her shampoo, could feel her warm, Chianti-laced breath on my cheek.

I tapped the NOTES icon on my phone, opened the file titled “WORDS” and slid the phone over to her.