“It’s a short walk,” he says. “You have to eat anyway, right?” He does this little shrug of his shoulders.

I study his face, lines in places that tell me he’s smiled a bunch, but worried more. I try to picture him grabbing my wrist, slamming me against a wall. I can’t. It’s a ridiculous thought. He cares too much. Wears it on his sleeve. He put his feelings into asking me to dinner, trusting I’d be careful not to hurt them. I wonder if my eyes look familiar to him too, if that’s why he liked my music so much. Takes one to know.

“I could eat,” I say. Stupid, but hungry. Stupid, but lonely.

“Can I carry that for you?” Ethan points to my guitar. “It looks heavy.” His teeth are big and straight. He’s thin, but he has chipmunk cheeks.

“It’s okay. You have to hold it just so or the handle comes off.” I’m lying, but we lose something if he thinks I don’t trust him.

He’s my height and there’s a coziness to it, like we’re old chums. His eyes are right there when I turn my head.

He’s a painter at heart, he tells me, but he’s not poor because he teaches at the university, does freelance design work on the side.

“I’m too into creature comforts to starve for my art,” he says, flashing teeth.

I wonder if he’s trying to convert me.

The restaurant he takes me to wants to be bohemian, but it’s too clean and calculated. Each wall is alternately mustard and rust colored. Light fixtures wrapped in copper mesh. Everything on the menu has goat cheese or pine nuts.

Ethan orders two bowls of gazpacho as soon as we sit down, nodding for my approval after the fact. I nod back, smile sweetly. When the waiter comes with our soups, I order the same entrée Ethan does.

“I told you it was good,” he says, a chunk of green stuck in his teeth. He doesn’t notice that I haven’t tasted my soup yet.

“Mmmm,” I say. “Thank you. This was a good idea.”

He’s beaming. I understand now. I’ve seen this before. He’s clinging to that part of himself that would like to be me and have the guts or the stupidity to just go for it. Live in your car. Eatsleepbreathe for your art. As long as we’re together, he’s a painter who has the courage to let go of all the creature comforts, to feel like he’s living the dream without the bruises.

“I like your lyrics,” Ethan says. “You have an interesting way of saying big things with simple words.”

I wonder if he’s giving me credit for Dylan songs. I only played a handful of my own. “Thanks,” I say.

“How did you learn to play?”