Diane didn’t think that anything about today was likely to make sense. She felt nauseous after that moment in the restroom and was extra glad she hadn’t ordered any food, invisible or not.

“I’m feeling okay,” Dawn said, pen over the next question. “I had a migraine recently, although of course I didn’t know until someone told me.”

“Of course,” said Diane. Why of course?

“Also a bout of food poisoning. Had to miss a couple of days.”

“You got a migraine from food poisoning?”

“What? No, how would that happen? It was just food poisoning. We have the salmon deliveryman come by every Tuesday, and leave fresh salmon on our porch. Lately the quality seems to be deteriorating. He used to put an entire live fish there and lumber away. We’d open the door to find a wet creature with panicked, unblinking eyes, flopping around outside our door. We’d kill it with strychnine and have delicious steaks and salads and pastas. But lately, he’s just been leaving wet piles of torn, pinkish gray flesh that I hope is salmon. Honestly, I think he’s just tossing it from the sidewalk, not even walking up to the porch anymore.”

“I’ve never heard of any kind of meat causing food poisoning. Just wheat and its by-products.”

“Well, me neither, of course, but after we ate this week’s salmon delivery, and it was especially moist and spongy this week, Stuart and I both felt a bit sick. We couldn’t get out of bed for days.”

“Is Stuart your husband?” Diane asked.

“Who?”

“Stuart.”

“Who is Stuart?”

“You just said his name is Stuart. The man you live with.”

“I live alone, Diane. Single as single can be.”

Diane suddenly felt like the words she was saying were twisting in her mouth and coming out as different words altogether. No part of the conversation was connecting with any other part. She might throw up after all, but she had just been in the restroom. It would look strange to run back to it so soon. The thought of that slight embarrassment kept her stomach in check.

“Who did you eat that salmon with the other night?”

“Nobody. Just me. Like I said, this is my first time out with someone else in over a month, I think. So glad you invited me.”

“Right. I’m glad you agreed to meet me.”

A gray-gloved hand rose over the edge of the table, holding two coffees. It quietly slid them in front of the two women. They pretended they did not see the hand, maintaining eye contact and waiting in polite silence as it pushed food they had never actually ordered onto the table: a Greek salad for Diane and a Denver omelet for Dawn. The hand made a subtle flourish of accomplishment and then disappeared back under the table.

“This is about”—Dawn looked back at Diane’s list—“Evan?”