But then he finished. He checked his phone, he pressed his fingers to his temples, and there she still was, motionless. He went inside the bar through the side door. Almost immediately, he came back out again, this time with the old man from the subway. It was so strange to see him again; it was just as surprising as it would have been to discover that she’d imagined him. The two men were speaking low, in Czech, which she was familiar enough with to recognize but not to understand. Also, they had an urgency, or maybe it only seemed that way because what was she doing there, watching? The old man looked different—more gruff?—his movements were quicker; he hastily lit a cigarette and the younger man waved the smoke away.

If she’d had a phone, she knew it would be dinging with a text from Matthew right about then, that he wanted to go ahead and order in, that it was getting late. If she’d had a phone, she would have felt compelled to text Kiki and Arman, thanking them, apologizing, thanking them again. Sarah knew she was much warmer over texts and e-mails than in person. But since she had no phone, Kiki and Arman were spared her compulsive apologizing, and Matthew had no way of reaching her. There were no texts, no calls. There was nothing but time going by, the slight twinge of hunger pangs.

She went to the classical-music-playing market, bizarrely determined to make dinner for Matthew, even though he would happily have eaten cereal or a take-out burrito. She bought mahi-mahi and bok choy and avocado. She bought cardamom ice cream. While she speed-walked home, leaves blazed green under streetlights; flyers stapled to telephone poles curled up at their fraying edges.

YOU’RE ALLOWED TO COME HERE? she’d asked Leda on that deserted beach, after teasing her about the cartwheels.

Allowed? I’m not trapped. We’ve gone over this.

You know what I mean.

Come on, Leda said. Let’s walk.

How many miles is it?

Who knows.