Evening cooled the air and purpled the sky. On our second date, we strolled through a pedestrian mall paved with brick, not holding hands. It was lined with restaurants, bars, clothing stores, bookshops. Her hair was long and straight, her face round and youthful, her eyes blue and clear. We passed older couples and groups of young people gathered on and around benches of iron and wood.
We found an empty bench and sat and talked. She told me about living with her parents in a cabin in Alaska as a girl.
A man with a wild beard and more layers of clothing than the weather warranted approached. “Any change?” he asked. I could smell stale sweat on him. I never gave money directly to the homeless, but he must have aroused her sympathy; she gave him a dollar from her purse.
“Thanks. Wanna hear a joke?”
She smiled. “Sure.”
“How many dead babies does it take to paint a house?”
I glanced at her. Her smile was still there, but it had stiffened, like bread become stale. We said nothing.
“Depends on how hard you throw them.” He waited for laughter that did not come. “Wanna hear another one?”
“No, thank you,” she said, sweetly.
