James Hynes - Next

“I didn’t think to ask,” she says. “Do you take lemon? Sugar?”

Kevin would love some sweetener, but he says, “This is great,” lifting the glass. The tea is refreshing, but mostly what he tastes is ice.

“Good.” Claudia leans back in her seat, lifting both hands to loosen her ponytail. She shakes her hair back and sighs, as if she’s willing herself to relax. Kevin watches her over his glass. He hadn’t noticed it when her hair was pulled back, but she has a Susan Sontag streak of white. She isn’t looking at him now, but gazing distractedly across the courtyard. Then, having shaken out her hair, lank with sweat, she pulls it tightly back again and nimbly slips the elastic over her ponytail. Somehow she’s figured out how to make the streak of white disappear when she pulls her hair back, and now he’s not even sure he saw it. He wonders why she let her hair down if she was just going to tie it back up again.

“How are you feeling?” she says.

“Fine,” he says. “Thanks again, for everything.”

She lifts her own tea, scowling as she swallows. She looks across the table, sighs, and carefully sets her glass to one side.

“May I impose upon you a little?” She leans forward on her crossed arms, making the table wobble. “I have a favor to ask.”

Kevin wonders if Dr. Barrientos is able to do anything at all without you being able to see the wheels turning. That could be a kind of curse, especially if she’s aware of it, leading to an infinite regression of self-consciousness. He worries he’s about to hear a pitch for Amway, or testimony of the doctor’s personal relationship with Christ, or — oh hell — both, simultaneously.

“Sure,” he says warily.

“I want to talk to you about something important.” She’s hunched forward, watching him, gauging his reaction.

Oh fuck, thinks Kevin, here it comes. Have you thought about how you’re going to spend eternity? And are you familiar with distributed sales? But then her eyes slide away from him, and Kevin thinks, if she were about to pitch him Christ and/or laundry detergent, she’d be less nervous.

“Well, it’s important to me, anyway,” she says, staring across the courtyard at nothing in particular. “It may not mean that much to you. But I want to tell somebody.”

“Okay.” Kevin’s still wary, but now he’s also curious.

She looks down at the table, tightening her grip on her own biceps.

“It’s just that we don’t really know each other,” she says, “and the odds are we’ll never see each other after today.”

Kevin’s surprised at his own sharp dismay. Oh no! he almost says aloud. Don’t say that!

“It’s just that makes you the perfect person to tell this to.” She looks up at him. “Does that make any sense?”

Now he really is curious, but a little disappointed as well: is she about to come out to him? Just his luck, the day he meets a really attractive woman in a city where he might be moving, that’s the same day she decides to announce to the world, or at least to him, that she’s a lesbian.

“I guess that depends.” He leans forward and rests his own arms on the table. Now they’re only a couple feet apart, like two lovers gazing into each other’s eyes in some dimly lit bistro, over a little bowl of candlelight. “On what you want to tell me.”

He regrets having put it so bluntly, regrets having sat forward like this. Is that alarm in her gaze? He should’ve just stayed where he was, slumped in his chair, looking blasé. Now he’s afraid she won’t go on.

“Though whatever it is,” he adds, trying to inch back from this intimate proximity without being too obvious about it, “I’m sure it’s okay with me.”

She lets her gaze drift again, and as she opens her mouth, probably to tell him to forget the whole thing, the loudspeaker crackles and says, in the melancholy voice of the guayabera, “Number fifty-eight, your order’s ready.”

“Is that us?” Kevin slaps his pockets for the receipt.

“I’ll get it,” says Claudia, suddenly upright. “Don’t get up.” Halfway to the door, she looks back. “Salsa?”

“Not too hot.” Kevin leans back in his chair, and she disappears into the greasy gloom.

Kevin sighs. The moment’s gone, she’ll never tell him now, and he’ll wonder for the rest of the day what it was she wanted say to him, some random guy she never plans on seeing again. Then his Jiminy Cricket chirps up, saying, this is your chance, leave now while she’s gone. Whatever she wants to tell you, trust me, you don’t want to know. You’ll regret it. This is your last chance, chump, get up and go. Vamoose. Scram. Skedaddle. Maybe Jiminy’s talking sense, thinks Kevin, God knows I should’ve listened to him earlier today. He sits up straight in the unsteady chair, puts his hands on the arms. He twists to look behind him, and sees a doorway in the courtyard fence that leads straight to the parking lot. If he gets up right now, without hesitating, he could be half a block up Lamar before she comes back. And no harm done, really; he’s already paid for her lunch. Of course, he’d have to do it right now …

Too late. He faces forward to see her in the doorway holding a plastic tray in both hands. She’s just standing there, watching him, which means that she caught him just now contemplating his escape. He shifts in his seat and ventures a smile, and she steps down out into the courtyard, carefully balancing the two paper cartons on the tray. As she sets it on the table between them, she smiles to herself, then directs the smile at him.

“You’re still here.” She lifts one carton to his side of the table and the other to hers. Each contains a fat, steaming soft taco, bulging with chunks of brown meat, grilled onions, and a liberal sprinkling of what looks like fresh cilantro. She also sets aside a small stack of paper napkins. “I haven’t scared you off,” she adds, setting a little plastic cup of lumpy red salsa before him. Her own cup of salsa is green and thick with what looks like stems and seeds.

“You don’t know me,” he says. “I’m not like that.” Not to mention he just remembered that his jacket’s still in her truck. He looks up at her. “Claudia,” he adds. It’s the first time he’s called her by name.

She’s standing with all her weight on one solid, glorious leg, her hand lightly on the back of her chair, as if she’s contemplating fleeing, too. Then she nods briskly, jerks the chair back, and sits. She squares her taco in front of her and opens it to coat the filling with salsa verde. Kevin moves aside the warm flap of his own taco and pours salsa over the meat and onions and green leaves. It smells wonderful. Lifting it with both hands, Kevin’s pleasantly surprised by his first bite. The taco’s spices, whatever they are, hit places on his palate that he didn’t know existed. His usual Mexican place in Ann Arbor, a little dive near campus, basically serves up ground beef and cheese with jalapeños. This is richer and much more subtle. “Wonderful,” he mumbles with his mouth full. “What is it?”

“ Al pastor. ” She picks up her own taco with the tips of her fingers. “Pork.”

“Wonderful.” Kevin takes another big bite, grease and salsa rojo sliding down his fingers. Then he swallows and says, “So. The doctor is in. I’m listening.”

Claudia chews for a moment, still making up her mind. She takes one more bite, lifts her tea. Then she sets the glass and the taco to one side and puts her forearms on the table.

“Okay,” she says. “I think I told you, I’m a surgeon.”

Kevin nods.

“Well,” she says, with steely calm, “I’m being sued for malpractice.”

She says “malpractice” with the emphasis on the first syllable. Mal practice. He’s glad his mouth is full. He can’t say anything, so he just nods again.