One morning, in exchange for thin coin, Maggie asked him. His answers at first were distant. He was from Switzerland. For years, he took Europeans on tours of Florida, which is why he speaks with an American accent.
He began to ask her about her work and recommend particular articles. Finally she said, "This is silly. Let's meet for lunch and talk." He insisted on going to the cheap Indian across the road, and paying. That moved her. He was still distant. "I paint landscapes," he said, making direct eye contact with his Tandoori. "When I have the money for canvases." Where does he live? "I have no family here," was his only answer. Something came loose inside her, and she wanted to say then, "You can come and live with me."
That is what is she intends to say to him this morning. But something in her large black coat, the Adventure prospectus, the red jacket is rearing up. Even in rehearsal, the words skitter sideways as if avoiding a gaze.