There’s some spilled egg yolk on her shirt. She stands and bows before walking out.

“If I were to stick around, to keep you company while you eat,” says Hilbert, setting his books facedown and pushing his glasses onto his head, “would that be okay with you?”

“Yes,” I say, realizing he must have been waiting around for me to arrive. “I’d like that.”

He doesn’t consider Pete, in his current state, company. I’d have to agree. I wonder how old Pete is. He must be very old. Ancient. Over a hundred? It’s hard to tell what’s going on behind his blank face and tired eyes.

“I like the shape of your cheek,” Hilbert says, out of the blue. “I’ve never seen a cheek like it.”

Instinctually, I bring a hand to my face.

No one has ever commented on my cheek before. It’s such a specific part for him to notice and like. My smile, yes. My hair. My eyes. But no one has ever said anything about my cheek. I can tell he means it. I don’t know how to respond.

“I used to love reading,” I say. “Especially novels. My father used to gift me books about biology. And I had a collection of cookbooks. And art books.”

“We have time to read here,” he says. “We have all the time we need.”

“I don’t know. It’s not just needing time. The desire seems to have left me. I have a hard time concentrating. I never thought I would lose the ability to do something as simple as following a story or focusing on words on a page. What are you reading?”

He fumbles with his book for a moment. His hands are old, like mine, but his fingers are elegant and slender like a pianist’s.

“Um, let’s see… It’s called…”

He holds it up for me to read, and I have to lean closer.

Noncommutative Geometry and Number Theory: Where Arithmetic Meets Geometry and Physics

“I don’t think I know that one,” I say.

We both chuckle. Pete looks up, very briefly, but doesn’t make any sign of recognition.

“One of the authors is this wonderful Italian mathematician, Matilde Marcolli.”

“I think I probably know more Italian artists than Italian mathematicians,” I say. “The names of artists used to mean something to me.”

“They don’t anymore?”

“It’s hard to care in the same way,” I say. “It’s impossible to be that excited forever.”

“Forever is a long time. Earlier I was reading about infinity,” he says, “so I do understand. How long is forever?”

“The idea of infinity makes me anxious. And uncomfortable. It always has. I’m a worrier, and anything to do with forever scares me.”

“Unless we could live forever,” he says.

“Yes, and let Shelley worry about all the details,” I say.

“That’s right,” he says, chuckling. “A forever’s worth of toast and eggs.”

“If we could stay young, we’d have nothing to be anxious about. Aging is frightening.”

“I’m a mathematician,” he says. “I don’t worry much. There are rules and limits and horizons even if we can’t reach them all ourselves.”