Page 12 of Night Shift

I remember to blink.

"I am not cast for that role."

"Fine. Tragic antihero." She nudges my plate toward me. "Or maybe you're just a weird guy who likes scones. Jury's still out."

"I am not opposed to weird."

"Good. Because you're crushing it."

Someone calls her name from behind the counter, and she disappears before I can ask what, precisely, I am crushing.

I watch her go.

Two students at the next table whisper to one another, followed by laughter.

I turn my head.

They immediately look away.

My hearing is considerably better than they realize.

Shadow boyfriend.

I consider correcting them.

I do not.

When closing time comes, I remain while the other customers drift out into the fog. A raccoon the size of a terrier hunts pastry crumbs along the curb outside while Calliope finishes cleaning, tosses her apron across the counter, and reaches for her oversized coat.

"You waiting for me?" she asks.

There is no surprise in her voice anymore.

I stand. "It is unpleasant to walk home alone. This is general advice, not a specific judgment."

She snorts as she pulls on her coat. "For all you know, I'm the thing people should be worried about."

"You are."

Her hands still on the buttons.

Then she smiles.

I file this away for future study.

Our walks have become a formality neither of us believes but both continue to honor. Kingfisher Street is quiet tonight, save for the distant whir of the packaging plant and the occasional rush of tires over wet pavement.

I let her set the pace.

"You ever look at something and feel like you're the only person who sees it for what it really is?" she asks after a block.

"Not only do I see, but I am compelled to see. Things hide from others, not from me."

She glances up. "You're not great at metaphors, are you?"

"Metaphor is irrelevant to me. I see the thing itself and what it wants to be."

"What do I want to be?"