“You know who you’d really like talking to?” Ada asked, leaning back as a waiter removed the remains of the appetizers. Her words were tense and clearly forced. Fourteen minutes of waiting for everyone else to finish their appetizers never moved so slowly, and the silent agony that radiated from Bo seemed only to irk Ada into a forced-socializing frenzy. “There’s a woman over at table 2. She has the same dry humor that you do.”

Bo was confident he could see the sands of time trickling passed him, the warble of the air as people drew in breaths to speak, the strain as the air conditioning tried to cool the building. Something in him craved death. Craved disappearing with that guest from the terrace.

He wrung his fingers. His stomach started knotting itself, and his eyes itched to glance around and find him. Does it count as humor if no one else thinks it’s funny?” Bo asked, eyes fixed downward.

“Only one way to find out.”

He admired her. He really did. There was something so wonderfully remarkable about how Ada seemed to float through the crowd, make herself a part of any conversation. It was like watching a chameleon in motion, camouflaging itself. “Thanks for the offer, but no. I’ve embarrassed myself enough today, and I’d rather lick the carpets in the lobby than do that.”

Ada waved off the comments. “Self-perceived embarrassment is not actual embarrassment if there’s no audience. Now, there’s also someone really into literature over there, and he’s kind of obnoxious about it,” Ada continued, pointing towards a booth table, “and...one of the girls at table 7’s really into astronomy. She’s twelve, so easy conversation. There’s also a guy sitting at table 5, and he’s kind of weird but not in a bad way – ”