“But you didn’t.”
“No.”
“Why?”
He looked toward the harbor.
“Because you smiled at me.”
I waited.
“That sounds foolish now,” he said. “But you looked lost, then started laughing at yourself. I had spent months imagining you as a name on an envelope. Suddenly you were a person.”
“So you took me for coffee.”
“I told myself it was only coffee.”
“Then breakfast.”
“Yes.”
“Gozo.”
“Yes.”
“My final dinner.”
His voice dropped.
“Yes.”
Every memory changed as he admitted it.
The coffee that had felt spontaneous.
The ferry ride where he held my hand when the deck shifted.
The afternoon he bought me lemon ice and wiped sugar from my thumb.
The quiet moment beside the sea when he said he was glad I had said yes.
I had thought life brought us together.
David had recognized me.
Followed me.
Chose not to tell me why.
“You used me,” I said.
