Now he’ll see me before I see him, unless I stare out the window and try to catch him walking down Bedford Street, but that would look desperate. I rustle through the contents of my bag, wishing I had a day planner or a fancy purse—something classy to play with while I wait. My messy hair and long skirt are starting to look more street urchin than free spirit, and I’m surprised the host put me right up front in the window. I am not what this restaurant is trying to advertise. Everyone else is in a dark suit or done up in an outfit that looks like it came off a mannequin in a department store. Even though I tried to straighten up in the car, I look like I came from the bottom of a laundry hamper. My thrift store peacoat has a hole in the elbow.
Matthew suggested this place. “You’ll love it. Fantastic paninis,” he’d said on the phone. I wasn’t sure which word sounded weirder coming out of his mouth, fantastic or paninis, but I just needed to hear his voice.
I take a CD out of my bag and decide I’ll sign it for him in advance, but then he walks in wearing a brown leather jacket. Sparkling sunglasses and shiny watch throwing light everywhere. His old life must seem ridiculous to him now. I bet he never goes deer hunting. I bet the things he used to want feel like a bad dream he had once. He’s not Matty anymore.
I shove the CD back in my bag and stand. My thigh hits the table. Water spills on crisp paper placemats. Ice and silverware clink.
“God, April, you’re a sight for sore eyes,” he says, like he’s reading a script. His sunglasses are still on, so I can’t see how sore his eyes really are. He hangs his jacket over the back of the empty chair and meets me at the side of the table.
“Matthew,” I say, showing my acceptance of his new self. I reach up to hug him and hope I don’t smell too sweaty. I hope I don’t smell like burning rubber.
He wraps his arms around me and they bulge against my ribs. He used to be all skin and bones; now his chest is tight and hard, like hugging a mannequin. A belt buckle digs into my stomach. His thin black sweater is soft and smells new. It’s perfectly pressed, without a speck of lint.
“You look great,” I say. It sounds pathetic. Too adoring. Needy. Obvious. People are staring at us. Him. People are staring at him. Not me. Now I know why the host sat me in the window. Matty made the reservation.
“You!” Matthew holds me by the arms and looks me over. His jeans are perfectly pressed too. “Wow.”
In the reflection of his sunglasses, my hair is more frizzy than curly. I wonder if his wow is like saying someone looks like a picture but leaving out what kind of picture they look like. I wanted to feel safe when I saw him. I wanted seeing him to feel like home, in the way normal people feel about home. The safe place you’re supposed to be from. But it just makes me nervous, how different he is.
We sit. His chair is in the sun, and I worry he might not ever take his sunglasses off. Then he does, and he’s Matty again, eyes so pale they’re almost yellow. And looking at him starts to quiet my nerves.
After school, when we’d draw pictures of each other with his little sister’s crayons, the one I used to color his eyes was called raw sienna.
My bag is on the table. I go to move it, but before I can, he grabs the CD that’s poking out.
“Wow, this isn’t…” He flips it over and touches the picture of my face. “Ape! That’s fantastic.” He opens the jewel case and stares at the disc. “Can I have it?”
“Of course,” I say softly. I look at the table and scratch my fingernail on the placemat, leaving a rippled scar on the wet paper. Three of the songs are about leaving him and I know it won’t take him long to figure that out.
He looks at my wrist. I see him notice the finger marks that are starting to bruise. I wait for him to say something, my hand frozen mid-scratch, wet paper stuck under my fingernail.
“You know, I’m friends with the music director,” he says, clearing his throat, “on the show.”
I pull my sleeve over my hand. It’s easier that way. It’s not like I want to talk about it.
He closes the jewel case and looks at my picture, the one Cole took on the beach in Asbury Park, then he looks back at me, like he’s seeing if it all adds up. “I’ll slip this to him and see if we can get it on the show.”
I hate the idea of my songs scoring a fight between a woman who has come back from the dead and her lover （who’s really the evil twin of the man she thinks he is）， but I could use the money.
“Take another one then.” I dig through my purse and hand him a second CD. “You should have one too.”