On Saturday, Adrián arrived at the corner of Mercier and Toledo ten minutes early.
He stood under the streetlight on the corner—an old yellow lamp with a green-painted housing and a moth circling the bulb—stuffed his hands in his coat pockets, and tried not to look like someone who’d been nervous all day about a missing persons investigation.
This was complicated, because he had been nervous all day about a missing persons investigation.
And about other things.
Don’t think about the other things. Think about Elena. You’re here for Elena.
He lifted his left wrist. Kenji’s bracelet was still warm, normal, silent. He hadn’t been able to interrogate him yet—when he’d gone to the convenience store on Friday afternoon, the "CLOSED" sign was hanging on the door, which had never happened the entire week he’d been going. Kenji had conveniently disappeared on the exact day Adrián needed to ask him questions.
Suspicious.
Though at this point, everything is suspicious.
He looked at the street. Mercier was an old street, with uneven cobblestones, five-story buildings with plaster cornices, tall windows with dark green-painted wooden frames. At this hour, the businesses had already closed. Only three places were still lit: a bar in the middle of the block, a pizzeria at the end, and something that looked like a vinyl record store with a brightly lit display window.
"Vega."
Adrián turned around.
Sariel was walking from the opposite end of the street, and for a second Adrián forgot about the investigation, about Elena, about Mercier Street, and about all the reasons he was standing on that corner.
She wasn’t wearing the black coat this time.
She was wearing a short black dress, long-sleeved, with a high collar that brushed her jaw. Dark stockings. Knee-high boots. Her hair loose, the low ponytail abandoned. Dark red lipstick she hadn’t worn any of the previous times. And a small purse hanging from her shoulder on a thin chain.
She looked like a girl going on a date, not a girl going to investigate five unresolved disappearances in a forgotten neighborhood.
Adrián registered all of that in about three of her steps, and by the time she reached the corner and stopped in front of him, he’d already closed his mouth twice and decided not to say anything because anything he said would sound stupid.
"Hi," said Sariel.
"Hi."
Silence.
She looked him up and down with studied speed. Adrián suddenly felt very aware of the hoodie he’d put on without thinking too much.
"Vega."
"Yeah?"
"It’s eight."
"Yeah."
"And the investigation was supposed to start at nine."
"...yeah."
"We have an hour."
Adrián looked at her.
She looked at him.
"What are you suggesting, Corvax?"
Sariel shrugged with a casualness that didn’t belong to her at all.
"I’m suggesting that standing on a corner for an hour is uncomfortable. And it’s cold. And the pizzeria at the end of the block is open until midnight."
"This is a..." Adrián hesitated. "This is a missing persons investigation. Not a date."
"Correct."
"Then why are you dressed like that."
"I’m dressed how I’m dressed."
"Sariel."
"Vega."
"..."
"Shall we?"
She started walking toward the pizzeria without waiting for an answer.
Adrián stood on the corner for half a second longer, watching her walk away, feeling his brain register several pieces of data at once:
One: this is a date.
Two: she knows it’s a date.
Three: I know she knows it’s a date.
Four: no one is going to say out loud that it’s a date.
Five: shut up and walk, Adrián.
He walked.
---
The pizzeria was small. Four tables. Red and white checkered tablecloths. An old TV in a high corner showing a football match with no sound. A guy behind the counter with a white apron and an impressive mustache. It smelled of baking dough and oregano.
They sat at the back table, against the wall, facing each other. Sariel ordered a margherita pizza to share. Adrián ordered two beers without asking and then realized he hadn’t asked.
"Do you like beer?" he said, half-regretting it.
"I like beer," she said. "Stop apologizing for things you didn’t do wrong."
"I wasn’t apologizing."
"You were starting to apologize. I saw it."
"Stop reading me, Corvax."
"Stop being so easy to read, Vega."
She smiled at him. Adrián smiled back without meaning to. The smile held between them longer than strictly comfortable, and neither gave in first.
"There’s one thing I don’t understand," she said, resting her chin on her hand.
"What’s that?"
"How someone with your face spends his life dressed like he just lost a high school basketball game."
"It’s a lifestyle choice."
"It’s a bad choice."
"It’s comfortable."
"It’s surrender."
"Sariel."
"Vega."
"You’re very direct tonight."
"Yeah."
"Why?"
She looked at him for a few seconds. Then dropped her eyes to the table and traced the edge of the coaster with her finger.
"Because tonight I have a complicated task ahead of me. And I’m giving myself permission not to be complicated for an hour before I start it."
Adrián stared at her.
"What task?"
"The investigation."
"..."
"I talk a lot when I’m nervous. It’s a problem. Ignore me."
"You never seem nervous."
"I’m always nervous."
The pizza arrived. Cut into eight slices. Sariel grabbed one with her hands without hesitation, folded it in half, and took a huge bite without any decorum whatsoever.
Adrián watched her eat.
"...I thought you were going to be one of those people who eats pizza with a knife and fork."
"Vega, insulting me is a strange strategy for a first date."
"It’s not a date."
"Correct."
"..."
Sariel smiled mockingly.
"Eat."
They ate.
They talked.
Adrián couldn’t, afterward, remember exactly about what. Criminology. Psychology. The time Sariel had failed a final exam because she’d fallen asleep in the library hugging a forensic pathology book and the librarian had to shake her awake. The time Adrián had won a regional billiards tournament at sixteen with a shot he himself didn’t understand how he’d executed. Movies. Music. What kind of people do crossword puzzles in ink and what that says about their character. Whether the pizzeria guy’s mustache was real or fake.
It was a normal hour. Absurdly normal. And for Adrián, who hadn’t had a normal hour in three years, the word normal was starting to sound like a synonym for perfect.
At 9:45, Sariel looked at the wall clock.
"Vega."
"Yeah?"
"We have fifteen minutes."
"Still."
"Still."
"..."
"There’s a movie theater two blocks away."
"It’s late for a movie."
"There’s a showing at nine. Ninety-minute runtime. Starts right now. If we hurry."
"You’re postponing the investigation."
She held his gaze.
"I’m postponing the investigation."
Adrián put down the half-eaten slice of pizza on his plate. Wiped his hands on the napkin with more care than necessary.
"Let’s go."
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