On his third trip back to the restaurant
In the same day
He asked for her phone number
She stared into his pale eyes for more time than she realized
Searching for cynicism, finding none
Such a long time, that he blushed and looked away
Fidgeting with his jacket
Crumpled notebook paper and ink pen in one clenched fist
"I am not ..."
She started
Yes you are,
He finished
Placing the wrinkled paper on the counter between them
Blank, a space to be filled
A deep breath
Then, leaning over the Formica
slowly writing the number with her right hand
While hiding her prosthesis behind her back
As if it were a letter full of bad news
Something she was not prepared to share with anyone
just yet
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