“This can work,” I say, “I can, I mean we can make this . . .” 

But she just shakes her head slightly, and sighs, you know that kind of sigh that just means we’re going nowhere. 

And I know that it’s because I get excited and can’t stop talking, often about the same thing, over and over again and again, like a song put on endless repeat and repeat. 

And so I just keep at it, but still, I know that I can get better at listening and having conversations that are normal, well almost, and so I say 

“I can make this work . . .” 

But by then her mouth is a straight line, neutral and unfeeling, like the anti-happy face with the straight-line mouth, and her eyes darken and ‘fade to black’ as I call it, like the end of a noir film, and so out of the blue, I say 

“I wished you liked noir films the way I do and then we could watch together, you know, ‘cause I know so much about the old black-and-whites . . .’ 

But then I know that’s the wrong thing to say, and she seems to retreat away from me, and that’s when I see that bit of leaf on her sweater, on her shoulder, and I try to not to look, but I can’t help it, you know, it shouldn’t be there, out of place and all, so finally I reach over and sweep it off with the back of my hand. 

And she gives me that look and starts to move, and she rises from her chair and turns, walking straight for the café door, so I’m surprised, and I’m always surprised at how she moves so gracefully, as if she could never make a false step, then I want to follow, and getting up, and all too loud in this public place, I say 

“we can make this work . . .” 

But I forgot about the napkin tucked in my shirt, and the coffee mug sitting on the table left on the napkin’s edge, and so when I get up too quickly, the mug doesn’t just fall but does, like, a triple somersault, sending spirals of coffee into the air, on the café windows and floor, and even all over my clothes, the cardigan’s old, but the shirt’s the new one, so I’m so shocked I trip and hit the table with my knee, and it goes over with the bang and crunch of wood on wood and shattered glass and plates on wood, and all the wood was what I liked about this place. 

But now the waitress comes and glares that special glare they save behind their eyes for the world’s worst customers, like me, I guess, and then the manager is there telling her to go, 

and he’s a nice Indian man, or maybe Pakistani, or maybe both, if you can be both, but now he’s got the straight-lipped non-smile, and I’m saying 

“I’m so sorry—I’ll clean it up, I’ll pay for . . .” 

But he’s calling me “sir” and asking me to leave, and I just stare, not knowing what to say for a minute, but then I say 

“Yes, yes, of course, I’ll leave, that’s the best, but I’ll be coming back to pay and make it right . . .” 

But he’s just shaking his head, and I start to leave, but then I add 

“it’s just ‘cause I get excited. . ..”