“Why I asked you to go to the gallery with me?”

“Well, yeah.”

“You’re not wearing an undershirt,” she said with a mischievous grin.

“You saw my flab, didn’t you?” he deadpanned as he stopped and turned to her.

“Please don’t tell me you’re attracted to flab.”

She laughed. It was a high-pitched, pleasant sound: one that Coletti could get used to. “Actually,” she said coyly, “I noticed your crucifix.”

He looked down at his chest self-consciously. Then, as they started walking again, he glanced at her with a question in his eyes.

“Your shirt’s kinda cheap,” she explained, her face contorting into an amused apology of sorts. “It’s easy to see through it without an undershirt, especially from the side.”

“So you asked me to go to the gallery with you because you like old guys with cheap shirts and crucifixes. Is that some kind of fetish or something?”

She slapped his arm playfully. “No, silly. I just—I don’t know. It’s interesting running into other practicing Catholics, I guess. Makes me feel like I’m connected to something bigger than me.”

He was quiet as he contemplated what she’d said. When he spoke, it was with seriousness that he’d thus far been able to avoid.

“I hate to disappoint you,” he said soberly, “but I haven’t really been a practicing Catholic for years. So, if you’re looking for some kind of connection…”

“Whoa, there, Mr. Coletti,” she said, raising her hands in mock surrender, “I didn’t ask you to marry me. I just wanted somebody to talk to.”

“Let me guess. You picked me because of the great rhetorical skills I showed back there with my new partner.”

She chuckled, but this time the sound was empty and humorless. “Actually, I thought you were a jerk back there,” she said bluntly.

“So you like jerks?”

“No, I like men, and it takes a man to apologize when he’s wrong. Plus, I’m a bit of a sucker for reclamation projects. Maybe it’s the psychologist in me. I think I can fix people.”

“Even if they don’t want to be fixed?”

She smiled. “Everybody wants to be fixed. Most people just don’t know it.”

“Well, don’t waste your time trying to fix me,” Coletti said with a grin. “I’m not the one who’s crazy.”

“And I am?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. “You’re out with me, aren’t you? That can’t be a good sign.” She laughed as the two of them crossed Sixth Street, passing the stately slab of glass and concrete that was the National Constitution Center. As they crossed Fifth Street, then Fourth, they grew more enamored with their surroundings, and a bit more relaxed with one another.