“I figured you would enjoy it,” he said. “That’s why I brought you.”
It was half true. That was half the reason he’d brought her. That and the fact that he wanted to feel better about abandoning the Luis Project. He wanted to make it up to her, even though she had no idea he’d ever started looking. Because after his experiences earlier that day, he did not want to knock on even one more door.
He watched her smooth her hands over the starched white tablecloth as if admiring the fabric by feel. There was a tiny bud vase of fresh flowers in the middle of the table, some kind of small purple blooms, and Raymond wished she could see them. Maybe she could smell them, he thought.
“I’ll read you the brunch choices,” he said.
“I want an omelet. I already know I want an omelet. Just tell me what kinds they have.”
“You sort of custom-order it. They have a list of omelet fillings, and you can choose three. And you can choose what you want on top. I’ll read you the choices.”
“I know what I like the best,” she said, her voice still buzzing with excitement. “So let me tell you what I want, and you tell me if it’s on the list.”
“Okay.”
“Spinach? Cheese? Tomatoes?”
“Yes, all of that. They have those. What kind of cheese do you want?”
“I don’t mind which, because I like every kind of cheese there is. Is sour cream one of the things I can get on top?”
“It is.”
“Good. I’ll have that.”
“And you can have either bacon or fried potatoes.”
“Fried potatoes.”
“What kind of toast do you like?”
“Oh my goodness!” she said, as if she had eaten too much already. “This is so much food! I can’t eat so much food!”
“It doesn’t matter. Just eat however much you want, and then they’ll put the rest in a box, and you can take it home for later.”
“Yes,” a new voice said, “we have doggie bags. And you can also have champagne. It’s included with your brunch.” It was the waiter, who had stepped up to their table again.
“Champagne!” Mrs. G exclaimed. As though he had offered to set a diamond tiara on her head.
“I’m sorry,” the waiter said, looking directly at Raymond, “but you can’t have any. I’m guessing I don’t need to tell you why not. But the lady may have champagne. And just because I’m in a good mood today, I won’t even ask to see your identification, miss. I’ll trust that you’re old enough to drink.”
“Oh my. Champagne! I don’t know. Poor Raymond. He can’t carry me home. I have to be able to move my own feet. Champagne will go straight to my head!”
“It’s up to you,” the waiter said.
“It’ll be on a full stomach,” Raymond added.
“I’ll tell you what. Maybe bring me half a glass.”
“Coming up,” the waiter said. “Coffee or tea?”
“Tea,” Mrs. G said.
“Tea,” Raymond said.
The waiter disappeared again.
“So, tell me, Raymond,” she said. “How are you suddenly so rich?”
“I’m not. I’m not rich at all. This is going to be almost the last of that unexpected money I got. But I just knew this was what I wanted to spend it on.”
He watched her take the measure of her omelet with her fork and knife, touching the boundaries of it to see how long it was. How tall it stood.
“It is a good thing about the box to take it home,” she said. “Because I couldn’t eat this much food if you gave me all day to try.”
“Eat slowly,” he said. “We’re not in any hurry.”
The longer they sat there enjoying their brunch, the easier it would be to call it a day. To go home without crossing any more names off his list. Ever again.
“I will ask you a personal question,” she said, cutting off a piece of egg with her fork. “But you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want. Did you do the research on your computer the way we spoke about yesterday?”
Then she took a big bite and chewed slowly—almost dreamily—clearly savoring the flavors.
“I did. Before I went to bed last night.”
“And are you happier because of what you learned?”
“Yeah. Actually. I am. You were right. There are lots of people.”
“Good.”
They ate in silence for a time. He was waiting for her to do that typical grown-up thing. The one where grown-ups asked him to mark the fact that they were right, so as to never doubt their rightness again. She never said anything of the sort. In fact, she offered nothing more on the subject.
“It’s an actual orientation,” he said, surprised to hear himself still volunteering information.
“An orientation?”
“Right. Like, gay is an orientation, and so is straight. And there’s bisexual. And there’s asexual.”
It troubled him to use the word “sexual” in front of her, even if only as a suffix. It didn’t seem to trouble her to hear it.
“We are never so very different as we think we are,” she said, her mouth still full of omelet. She swallowed. Sipped her champagne. “I’m sorry, I am terribly rude to speak with my mouth full, but I can’t bring myself to stop eating because it is too good.”
“It’s okay,” he said.
For several minutes they both seemed to agree to focus on the food.
“I want to ask you a personal question, too,” he said after a time.
“Go right ahead.”
“When you first met me . . . you didn’t see me. You didn’t know I’m black. What if you had?”
“What if I had? Are you asking if it would have changed anything?”
“I guess I am.”
“Not even a little bit.”
“Are you sure?”
“I have never been so sure of anything in my life.”