He looks at me, the stars in his eyes gold, and he sees through me, inside me, as if my secrets have no shame and lay themselves bare for his perusal. Shameless secrets. What am I without my secrets? Who am I without my secrets?

“What is it?” I demand, at odds with the world.

“Do you like eggplants?” he asks, and I stare at him.

“The purple vegetable?” I wonder if I heard wrong. I am pretty old. It would not surprise me if my ears were the first things to go, considering how much I enjoy loud music.

“Eggplants are actually fruits, and sometimes they are white,” he replies.

“Oh. Fruits. Well. I don’t hate them. Why?” Why is he talking about eggplants? Why does he keep looking at me?

“No reason. I just wanted to know.” He tries to smile but ends up wincing when his split lip reminds him of the pain he is currently in.

“Come on.” I get up and grab his hand, pulling him along behind me. He holds on tight. Wait. Why did I hold his hand? Clearly there is something wrong with me. Didn’t I decide, not twenty minutes ago, to keep a distance from him? Did I forget? Is my memory going too?

“Are you okay?” I ask him as we walk up the stairs.

“Because of earlier?” he says, and I nod. He shrugs. “I’m used to it. When you live in a glass house, you learn not to ever get too comfortable.” That is the saddest thing I have heard in a while.

I take him to a washroom on the second floor and open up the cabinet to reveal a first aid kit. I get him to lean down, and I swab as gently as I can at his cut lips. He bears through my ministrations with only a grimace, and as a reward I give him a candy. He stares at it.

“You put it in your mouth,” I tell him helpfully.

He looks at me. The stars in his eyes brighten as if I have just amused him. I don’t think I care for being secretly laughed at. I bid him to follow me and take him to an empty bedroom on the third floor that he can use while we are in New Orleans. He doesn’t talk much.

“Do you want to rest until the girls get back?” I ask him, awkwardness creeping back between us. I might start wringing my hands if I don’t get away from him soon. He makes me feel very uncomfortable. As if my skin is too tight for my flesh. As if my heart has grown legs and wants to go on a vacation. Anyway, I don’t like this feeling.