The seat he takes without asking
Third dinner, a small place with a wall of bottles and four tables too many. You head for the booth and he lets you pick your side first, then slides in sideways with one arm along the backrest, facing the door. On the way out he takes the curb side of the pavement without a word.
Ask him later and he will say he likes the view. The view was a fridge. What he was really doing was putting himself between you and whatever might come through that door, a habit that has nothing to do with the menu.
Short texts that are never late
‘Got it.’ ‘Sure.’ ‘Made it home?’ His messages could fit on a matchbox, and you have started timing them anyway. Forty seconds on a Tuesday, in the middle of a work call. Twelve minutes on a Sunday, when he is clearly under a car.
A serious man does not draft paragraphs to sound interested. He answers, every time, and then adds one small question at the end. Your friend calls that dry. You have noticed that nobody else gets the question at the end.
