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black hair that sprouted from them, was leaning over the counter smiling halfheartedly at everyone who came and left. My father used to tell me to be careful with my food when Bill stood over us. “He sheds,” he told me, “like a dog.”
    In the scripted version that had played in my head during the five-minute drive from Isaac’s apartment to the restaurant, the entire diner fell silent as soon as we entered. All eyes turned toward us, and we ignored them. We didn’t hold hands—that would have been too provocative—but we did pause to look at each other with what I thought of as an abundance of affection. In the version we lived, no one stopped talking. Bill saw me as soon as I walked in and pointed to a table in the middle of the diner. Isaac followed me, but I was so focused on making it to the table that I never stopped to notice if anyone was staring at him. We took our seats. When I picked up my menu as a cover so I could look around the room, I realized no one had noticed yet how remarkable we were.
    Isaac saw my gaze wandering. “Why are we here?” he asked me.
    I looked around the room again. I thought I saw Bill and two of the men at the counter staring in our general direction.
    “No particular reason,” I told him. “I just wanted to get out.”
    I asked Isaac what he had done all day.
    “I was at the library,” he said.
    He described the book on contemporary American architecture he had been reading. I told him twice that it sounded very interesting. “Fascinating,” I said, “what they can build these days.” Chitchat. Simple conversation. When Isaac put his hand on the table, I took his pinky and index finger in mine. I held them for two, maybe three seconds while looking at the menu. I used a strand of loose hair as an excuse to let go.
    Our waitress came and took our order. I ordered the fried chicken; Isaac pointed to the Denver omelet and let me order for him.
    After our waitress left, I turned my attention back to the counter. I wanted to tell Isaac what my father had said about Bill, but he was no longer there; with him gone, the men at the counter stopped pretending they weren’t staring at us.
    I tried to ignore them, but then our waitress came back empty-handed, and I felt certain that if I looked over again at them I’d see them smiling. She was young, fresh out of high school. Had I been younger, I would have known who she was. She had a kind, round face and wore her dark-brown hair in a bun. She leaned over and whispered to us, “Bill wants to know if you would like to take your food with you.” She was doing her best to be kind.
    Isaac understood immediately what was happening, and, in the same breath, knew how to respond. Before I could answer, he told her, “No. We would rather eat here”—polite yet determined. She nodded her head; she had no idea what else she could do. Isaac pursed his lips and waited until she had returned to the kitchen before turning his attention to me.
    “Do you come here frequently?” he asked.
    I nodded yes, then changed my mind and said, “No, not really.”
    “Which one is it?”
    “I used to come here when I was younger,” I said, “but I don’t that often anymore.” It was true: the diner was a few blocks away from my office, but I went there once a month, at most.
    “We should go,” I said.
    Isaac hadn’t stopped staring at me since the waitress left. I was tempted to confess my reasons for bringing him, but I realized I didn’t have to. The best intentions didn’t change what was obvious: I should have known better.
    “I’m not going to run,” he said. “I’m going to eat my lunch.”
    Briefly, I felt bold again. I saw myself adding this lunch to my column of victories once I returned to the office. If we made it through this, then perhaps there was nothing in the world that we couldn’t conquer, from post offices to movie theaters and the all-too-perilous family dinner at home. I was imagining what my mother would say