OUR DAYS ARRANGE themselves into a pattern. We meet in the morning. Gym clothes. Workout T-shirts and yoga pants. Our mouths move more than our bodies do. Conversations that roll over the fifteen-minute mark. I barely notice whether Fuentes is watching or not.
We have lunch on Wednesday. I lure her with work.
She falls for it.
I take the opportunity to serve her food that I make. Burnt pans and smoke from the oven. Macaroni and cheese, baked chicken, and steamed vegetables that are a little soggy. I pour watermelon martinis and offer chocolate cake on the end of a fork.
She nibbles at it and it feels like our wedding day. The house sings in her presence.
Lights dim then slash to darkness when she leaves. I stop her at the car.
She says yes when I ask her to lunch again.
Sushi this time. The kind of restaurant normal people don't know exist.
