On Monday, Sarah finalized her date with Bob.
On Wednesday, they went to a basement club with no sign. A thin, drawn man played piano, his hands like two spiders. The music was muffled, as though it were playing inside her own chest. Yellow light. Yellow tables. A leopard sat on a bench. Sarah looked for some kind of a leash, but she didn't see any.
"I love it here," said Sarah, "it's so subconscious." She smiled. Once again, she had amazed herself. She always wondered about and admired the kind of person who would say such a thing, but here she was, saying it.
"Yes," said Bob, "it's down low. Really puts your head on the ground."
Sarah thought that everywhere she went from then on, she could just talk about where she is. And she would never have nothing to say again. A fog was condensing on the ceiling.
"So, Bob. You like me?"
"Yes I do," said Bob, and then started thinking of reasons he could give why. But she didn't ask.
"I like you, too."
He laughed to cover the fact that he had been thrown off balance. Clearly, she was in a mischievous mood, so he adjusted to it. Like a sophisticated microwave, Bob had a setting for just about anything.
"Interested in eating?" he asked.
"I don't eat game," she said.
"Do you play games?" he asked.
"When the board's out." She was now saying things a little faster than she understood them, but they seemed to be coming out all right.