She said she was a little girl? A plethora of unanswerables runs through my head. I stop and breathe for a minute. Okay. I grab my wallet and my keys, and away I go: lock the thirty-seven locks, descend in the cranky little elevator, buy roses for Clare in the shop in the lobby, walk two blocks to the restaurant in record time but still five minutes late. Clare is already seated in a booth and she looks relieved when she sees me. She waves at me like she’s in a parade.

　“Hello,” I say. Clare is wearing a wine-colored velvet dress and pearls. She looks like a Botticelli by way of John Graham: huge gray eyes, long nose, tiny delicate mouth like a geisha. She has long red hair that covers her shoulders and falls to the middle of her back. Clare is so pale she looks like a waxwork in the candlelight. I thrust the roses at her. “For you.”

　“Thank you,” says Clare, absurdly pleased. She looks at me and realizes that I am confused by her response. “You’ve never given me flowers before.”

　I slide into the booth opposite her. I’m fascinated. This woman knows me; this isn’t some passing acquaintance of my future hejiras. The waitress appears and hands us menus.

　“Tell me,” I demand.

　“What?”

　“Everything. I mean, do you understand why I don’t know you? I’m terribly sorry about that—”

　“Oh, no, you shouldn’t be. I mean, I know.. .why that is.” Clare lowers her voice. “It’s because for you none of it has happened yet, but for me, well, I’ve known you for a long time.”

　“How long?”

　“About fourteen years. I first saw you when I was six.”

　“Jesus. Have you seen me very often? Or just a few times?”

　“The last time I saw you, you told me to bring this to dinner when we met again,” Clare shows me a pale blue child’s diary, “so here,”—she hands it to me—“you can have this.” I open it to the place marked with a piece of newspaper. The page, which has two cocker spaniel puppies lurking in the upper right-hand corner, is a list of dates.