He was wearing an immaculate white shirt with long sleeves folded to just below the elbow, black jeans, and a day’s worth of beard. She had to tilt her head back to look him in the eyes: blue, with creases at the corners. He gave her a flashbulb smile, blinding, electric; she felt the shock of it slide up her back.

“You’ve been watching me,” she said.

“Oh yeah. It’s what I do.”

He had deep voice and a very southern accent, something Angie hadn’t noticed in passing, and never anticipated. The surprise of it robbed her of what she was going to say next.

He leaned toward her. “It was your hair first caught my eye.”

She touched it: untamable, best ignored.

In the noisy room he leaned closer still. “It’s beautiful.”

Angie smelled the beer on his breath, and other things: curry, a hint of ginger. Food was something she could always talk about.

“You went out for Indian,” Angie said sadly. More than a little drunk now, but it had less to do with alcohol than with the way he was looking at her.

“Come on, Angeline,” he said, taking her elbow. “We’ll get you something to eat.”

“You know my name,” she said, letting herself be directed.

“You don’t know mine?” He drew back to look, challenging her: she could try coy, or they could get right to it.

“John Grant. Columbia English Department. Straight and unattached. Except for—” She looked for the Chanel suit and saw her in the kitchen with Rivera, both of them laughing.

“Gloria. Just a colleague,” he said, and steered her toward the door.

They sat across from each other at a small table covered with dishes: lamb vindaloo, chicken tikka, a great milky bowl of cucumbers in yogurt, curried potatoes. Angie had an appetite, and food was the right distraction just now.

They talked easily. She told him about her thesis project, the short documentary she had put together about the Armenian population in the Bronx, the company she and Rivera wanted to start up. Her family over the river in Hoboken, the diner.

“Mangiamele,” he said. “Apple eater.”

She glanced up at him over the rim of her cup. “You speak Italian?”