together and clasps my palm to hers. The heat of her is
reassuring. Her hand is more than just a lifeline. Her hand is
solid. Her hand is real. Her hand tells me that she’s
understanding. That she’s not going to up and disappear on
me. At least I think that’s what it’s telling
me. That’s what I
choose to believe it’s telling me.
“I’ll book us tickets. Does it matter what night?”
“Aren’t they just on weekends? Plays?”
“No. There are places that have shows running during
the week.”
“Oh.”
I feel hopelessly uncultured right now. Why did I never
go to the theater? I went when I was a kid to small time
productions. My mom took me once. Why didn’t we ever do it
again? Why didn’t I think to do it myself?
I’ve even booked a few dates for clients where they
went to the theater. Why did it never occur to me to go there
myself? Because I was single? Because it wasn’t something I
would have done even when I wasn’t single?
When I look up into Steph’s face, I can see that she
doesn’t think I’m uncultured. She’s not judging me for never
going. She’s not holding it over me that she knows more than I
do about something. Of course she wouldn’t. She’s Steph.
She’s a truly nice person, from what I know of her. She’s used
to taking people who know nothing about something, helping
those who are struggling, and getting them to a place where
they can be proud of their accomplishment. She’s probably the
best teacher in the whole school. She just has something about
her that people are probably immediately drawn to and feel