““I’ve brought sandwiches.” He indicated a brown paper bag. “Let’s play a game.” Startled, we looked each other in the eye. We both swallowed hard. I cleared my throat and asked, “What’s the game?” “If I’ve managed to bring your favorite sandwich, you meet me again tomorrow.” “I like cheese,” I said cautiously. I was afraid of him producing turkey and cranberry, my most hated. “What kind of cheese?” he asked. “Any kind.” “Go on. Be specific.” “Mozzarella.” “I got you mozzarella and tomato.” “That’s my favorite,” I said, almost fearfully. “How did you know?” “Because I know you,” he said. “I know you.” “Jesus Christ,” I muttered, pressing my hand over my eyes. This was way too heavy. “And,” he added, almost breezily, “I bought eight sandwiches. One was bound to be something you like . . . but just because I made sure I was right doesn’t mean it wasn’t meant to be. Either way, it means you’ve””
