She had lashes like the bristles of a paintbrush and strong, rougeless cheeks.

“Are you through?” she asked. Her voice was warm but girlie—honey mixed with ashes.

“No,” he replied. “But you can go if you want.”

She accepted politely. A smile hissed across her face—a sparked explosive fuse.

His mouth was suddenly dry. He felt an urge to wet his lips. He didn’t, though, unsure of how she’d take it.

She struggled with a shopping bag.

“You want me to hold that?”

She refused politely. Then it slipped. And he grabbed it.

“Are you sure?”

“It’s okay,” she said. “Thank you.” And placed the bag between her feet.

A piece of paper fell to the sidewalk. From where, he wasn’t sure. He picked it up and read it as he leaned against a car. It was a shopping list for music: Toni Braxton, Babyface, and Gal Costa. Gal Costa? Tropicalismo … nice.

She was his age, he figured, and worked in the arts. Not music though. She would’ve been more determinedly stylish. Not fashion either—her taste would’ve had more edge. Design? Maybe. She could be an art director. But for a big firm. Not a boutique. Now where was she from? Her accent was American, but not from New York. The Midwest maybe, or California. California? Hollywood. She had the trained articulation of an actress.

In the middle of his reverie she grabbed her bag and left, and he walked to the corner, warmed by the encounter. Gal Costa. He thought of Brazil, its pungent food and sensuous music, and turned to smile again. To his surprise she was smiling after him.

“Was that your smile or the reflection of mine?” he asked, slowing down. She was about ten yards away.

She shrugged her shoulders to mean “whatever.”

“I hope it was the reflection of mine,” he said. “I wouldn’t like you to smile at me like that before you get to know me. When you get to know me I’ll know what it means. Right now I might have the wrong idea.”

She shrugged again.

“If I asked you your name, would you tell me?”

“No.”

“I promise not to laugh if it’s ugly. I’ll just refuse to use it.”

She looked at him blankly.

“Go ahead,” he said. “Try me.”

“No.”

He took her coolness as a challenge … vowed to make her laugh.

“Try-y-y meeee!” he sang, mimicking James Brown. “You know that song?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, you like Bob Marley?”

“That’s not Bob Marley,” she said. “That’s James Brown.”

“I knew that,” he said, steadying her eyes with a stare. “Just checking.”

“Checking what?”

“To see if you’re truly monosyllabic or just faking it.”

She chuckled, which encouraged him.

“Will you tell me your name now?”

“No.”

Her answer did not convince him.

“Well, I won’t ask you then. I’ll just make one up for you. I’ll just call you the woman-with-the-unique-buttons-on-the-navy-blazer-with-the-cute-nose-with-something-hanging-from-it.”

She wiped her nose quickly.

“That one hold you!”

She laughed.

“Well, I guess I’m not doing so badly.”