Page 14 of Night Shift

"You're freezing."

"I am aware."

"Do you ever get warm?"

"Rarely."

She takes my hand between both of hers and rubs it as though warmth is something she can simply transfer through determination.

The gesture is absurd.

It is also the most remarkable thing that has happened to me in several thousand years.

"See?" she says. "Better."

"It feels exactly the same."

"You're supposed to lie."

"I will remember that."

She laughs, still holding my hand, and leans against the porch rail. Neither of us makes any effort to move.

Over the next few nights, this becomes another kind of routine.

Coffee and pastries. Her complaints about the new parking meters. My inability to understand why anyone would willingly participate in karaoke. The occasional cigarette she steals from a coworker and insists she doesn't actually smoke.

She tries to play music for me once, but her phone dies before the song begins. I offer to repair it, then discover I have no idea how modern phones work.

"You've seen many versions of the world, but an iPhone defeats you?"

"It has no discernible screws."

She laughs so hard she has to put her head down on the table.

I decide I dislike the phone less than I did moments before.

On Friday, she asks what I studied before coming to Blackthorn Bay.

"Patterns," I tell her. "I was meant to catalogue them. To ensure none grew too large."

"Like algorithms?"

"If you like. But grander."

"I bet you're a nightmare at parties."

"I am seldom invited."

Again, the laughter.

Always the laughter.

By the end of the week, the regulars expect me. Calliope fills my cup before I ask, and the students no longer bother lowering their voices when they call me her shadow boyfriend.

I still do not correct them.

Our walks stretch longer, too.