He took another long drag, letting it out. They don’t tell you how close smoking is to setting yourself on fire. Some days, he enjoyed the act of it more than the outcome. The sense that he could burn something, trap the smoldering of ash inside his chest, and then breathe it out like some sort of omnipotent god. Fires, floods. Plagues and locusts. He wondered whether Regan had given it any thought and considered calling again to ask her, then stopped himself.
He let out a puff of smoke, watching it drift away.
Sometimes Aldo thought a fall was precisely what he was waiting for.
* * *
REGAN WAS FIVE MINUTES LATE, which Aldo would not have known （but possibly could have guessed） was really quite early for her. He was waiting outside his building, a duffel bag slung around his shoulders, and he was staring into nothing. His fingers were clamped together like he was holding an invisible cigarette.
“Hi,” she said, rolling down the window, and he blinked, then refocused on her.
She’d done an excellent job with his haircut.
“Hi,” he replied, pulling the door open and settling himself in the passenger seat of her S-Class, taking a moment to orient himself. He gave the space a scrutinizing glance, then permitted his shoulders to settle back, molding himself to his new surroundings. She wanted to laugh at his process of adaptation, but merely gestured to where she’d set his tea in the cupholder of the center console.
“English breakfast okay?” she said.
He nodded. “Thank you,” he said, and then looked momentarily distressed. “Really,” he added slowly, as if he feared the initial acknowledgement of gratitude hadn’t been enough, and she reached over to reassure him, patting his knee.
“Not a problem,” she said.
His gaze fell to her hand.
She retracted it, placing it on the steering wheel, and shifted back into the lane, heading for the interstate as Aldo reached for his tea.
“So,” Aldo said, leaning his head against the seat. “About that last conversation,” he suggested, and Regan felt a small stirring of relief. “I think we should have it now.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” He turned his head, looking at her. “Now that we know silence is perfectly fine,” he pointed out, “there’s really nothing wrong with this being our final one. We wouldn’t technically have to speak again.”
“True,” she said. “You make an excellent point.”
“Though, we never ruled out the option to renegotiate.”
She nodded, satisfied that he’d been the one to suggest it. “Definitely true. Do you have any opposition to octagons?”
“Not my favorite of the geometric shapes, but they’re certainly not invalid.”
She smiled to herself, flicking her signal to merge onto the highway.
“What should we talk about?” he asked her.
“Personal information,” she said. “Secrets.”
“You know all my secrets.”
She slid him an admonishing glance. “You told me all of your secrets over the span of five conversations?”
He shrugged. “I don’t have a lot of them. Or any, really.”
“Surely you have some.”
“Is there something specific you want to know?”
Now that he mentioned it, yes.
“Let’s talk about sex,” she suggested neutrally.
He took a sip of tea.
“Okay,” he said. “What do you want to know?”
“Who was the last person you had sex with?”
“A girl who goes to my gym,” he said.
“Did you date, or…？”
He glanced at her, smiling. “Her name is Andrea. She goes by Andie.”
“With an i?”
“An i-e.”
Regan made a face, and he laughed.
“She’s a trainer. We went on two dates, slept together four times. Last time was about three months ago.”
“What went wrong?”
“Nothing,” he said. “She works odd hours, I wasn’t around. Plus it wasn’t really going to go anywhere.”
“Why not?”
“Oddly,” he said with another sidelong glance, “some people seem to have no interest in bees.”
Regan suffered a rush of satisfaction she hurried to suppress.
“Did you tell her about the godless colonies?”
“I don’t think those were technically my words, so no.”
“Well, then you fucked up,” she informed him, moving into the furthest left lane. “Anyone serious?”