12.5

His jovial manner covered an intensity and a peculiar belief in the origin of thoughts that would have startled those he knew. In fact, it did startle Miss Starling when she chanced to find out. It happened at lunch one day in the small café just down the street--you know the one--where they both took their midday repast and riposte. He turned to her and asked, quite pointedly, whether or not it was her constant wearing of high-heeled shoes which led to her rampant sexuality, or in fact the other way around. She, having never considered the causal link, took pause. He covered the silence with a long slurp of coffee. When there was no reply forthcoming, he began to explicate her thoughts, beliefs, and actions all based on and rounded up with her simple clothing choices. Just when he was beginning to sway her with his eloquence and passion, she remembered a vital snagging point. With some triumph and flourish of words, like a magician producing the spoon you thought long ago embedded skull-wise, she proffered her point: what of her leisure hours? Why, when wearing different clothes, would she act still as herself? For this he had a quick and easy laugh, and he cracked his knuckles, leaned in conspiratorially, and described with some explicit detail her leisurewear, never having seen it himself. He leaned back, satisfied at the look of horror on her face. Of course he extrapolated backwards from what he knew of her, but the deadly accuracy with which he managed to describe the flippant mistreatment of her shoes, the secret life of her lacy slips, and the reckless disregard for nudity that she had so long kept secret from even her closest friends, all so easily flensed and cured before her on the fire and spit of his intelligence, managed to make her tremble and clutch at her throat. She felt the cool reassurance of her jewelry against her skin. Still, she, of course, could only repeat the interrogative "How?" often and vehemently. He turned back to his coffee, confident that she would remember this moment for years.
"You never take off your mother's ring. Take it off, and you'll find your leisure time will be a sight less liberated. In fact, take it off now and you'll not have the courage to talk to me."
She glanced at the banded metal and felt the strength of her memory wash over her. She knew he had to have extrapolated from what he knew of her. To have known so much from a single bauble, no matter its importance, was unthinkable. Yet she had to know. She found herself doubting. With cold sweat, she worked the ring from its perpetual perch and dropped it in her sudden fear of being changed, somehow, from when she had it on. It rolled toward the door, and she chased it to where it lay. When she stood up, she reevaluated. She didn't feel any different, certainly. Still the same old Miss Starling. Still willing to be herself at home. Perhaps she would draw the curtains, but that's only natural if a man knows, and he knew. She palmed the ring and turned to the cashier. No, she wouldn't talk to him anymore; not with his bogus theories and odd opinions. She paid and walked out to find a new café in which to lunch.

He watched her go and waited for her to enter the new Italian bistro just down the block, her red scarf whipping in the wind. He found himself regretting having told her, so he put on a hat to forget and pulled out his wristwatch to smile and cheerily headed back to work.