We stand at the side of the busy road. Traffic is whirling past.
Christopher looks left and then right, then left again. “Come on.” He grabs my hand and pulls me across the road.
“Where is the bank?” I ask.
“Just down here.” He holds his phone up and follows the map.
“How did you lose your card again?” I ask.
“Oh . . .” He rolls his eyes. “You don’t want to know.”
“How?”
He pulls me along by the hand. “Let’s just say I had an unpleasant zoo experience on my first night here.”
I frown as we walk. “What does that mean?”
“I went home with this girl, and when she undressed, she was so hairy that I thought I was with a gorilla, and I went in the bathroom to call my brother and freak out, and I left only to find out that she had stolen my card and wiped my bank account clean,” he blurts out in a rush.
I blink, horrified.
“I know.” He shakes his head.
“What’s wrong with hair on a woman?” I ask as I’m dragged along.
“Oh my god . . .” He rolls his eyes. “Not you too.”
“Well?”
He shrugs. “I don’t like it . . . and it’s my prerogative not to personally like it.”
“What?” I shriek. “What do you mean you don’t like it?”
“I mean, normal hair . . . fine. Never cut, never waxed . . . growing-a-vegetable-patch-down-your-legs-style, no fucking way.”
I giggle . . . jeez, that reminds me, I need a trim. Hmm, better buy some scissors.
Maybe a home wax kit?
We get to the bank, and he walks in and over to the counter. “Take a seat.” He gestures to the chair.
“I’ll come.” I stand beside him as he talks to the teller.
“Hello, I lost my card and ordered a new one. I got a text this morning to say it was here at this branch, ready to be collected,” he says.
“Okay.” She smiles. “Identification, please.”
He slides it over, and she enters the information into her computer. She waits, and then her eyebrows shoot up. As if surprised by something, she looks between him and the screen. “Mr. Miles?”
He cuts her off. “Yes. Card, please.”
“Just a minute.” She toddles off.
“What’s wrong with your account?” I whisper.
“She’s mortified by the lack of money in it,” he whispers back.
I giggle. “Aren’t we all.”
He gives me the side-eye.
“I am paying for breakfast, after all.” I widen my eyes at him.
He smiles. “This is true, you are.” He rolls his lips. “And then I’m buying you five-minute noodles for lunch.”
The lady comes back and begins to type on her computer again.
“It’s two,” I whisper.
“Two what?”
“Two-minute noodles.”
“Oh . . .” He nods. “Great marketing.”
I frown. “How?”
“Well, you instantly know what it is.”
“Not instantly,” I whisper. “Two minutes.”
He chuckles and puts his arm around my shoulders and pulls me close. The lady hands over his card. “Sign here, please.” He signs, and then she gives him another thing to sign. “Sign here.” She gives him a big smile. “That’s it. You two lovebirds have a great day.”
“Thanks.” He smiles. “We will.”
We walk out of the bank; his arm is still around me. And it’s not weird, and it’s not awkward. In fact it feels very natural to have him touch me. Which is weird in itself because I’m not regularly a touchy person.
Perhaps it’s because I know it’s just in friendship and nothing more.
We amble through the giant shopping district; my arm is linked through his. We’ve had the best day of all time. It’s late afternoon, and somehow Christopher and I have wasted hours and hours. We had breakfast, then we went shopping, and we both bought a book.
“I’m not sure what five-minute noodles taste like, but I’m sure our lunch was better,” Christopher says.
“It sure was.”
“You know”-he glances down at me-“that is the first time a woman has ever bought me lunch.”
“No . . .”
“True.”
I frown up at him. “Don’t you go to lunch dates?”
“All the time.”
“And you always buy the women lunch?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.” He shrugs. “I just do.”
I roll my eyes. “God, you must date some dummies.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Paying your own way is about self-respect.”
He frowns as he contemplates my words.
“It doesn’t matter if you are a beggar on the street or a millionaire; if a woman doesn’t ever offer to pay her own way, then she’s not with you for the right reasons.”
He raises his eyebrow as we walk along, remaining silent.
“Don’t you agree?” I ask him.
He offers an excuse. “But if one has more money than the other . . .”
“It doesn’t matter, Christopher,” I huff. I hate that these women would take advantage of him like this. “If you think that because they offer their bodies to you on a platter that you have to pay for everything . . . you are not dating them. You are paying them for sex. It’s as clear as day. How don’t you see it?”
He twists his lips as we walk along, still not saying anything.
I wonder, Is that how things work with him? Does he get taken advantage of because he’s kind?
“Oh, I want to look in here.” He pulls me into a shop. “I’ll be quick.”
I glance up at the sign above the door.
PHONE WORLD.
“Hello,” he says to the shop attendant.
“Hi.”
“Do you repair screens for . . .” He quickly looks through his photos on his phone and then holds it up to show him. “This phone?”
The guy narrows his eyes as he studies the picture. He screws up his face. “No, no, too old. Can’t get parts,” he says in a heavy Spanish accent.
“Oh.” Christopher’s face falls.
“Who has that phone?” I ask.
“Eduardo.”
“Who?” I frown.