Chapter 7: Bad at Pretending

Miles called on Thursday and asked whether I wanted to go out.

"We said one event," I reminded him.

"This can be a different event," he replied.

I leaned against my kitchen counter and grinned at a bowl of unwashed spoons.

"That's a remarkably dishonest use of accuracy," I told him.

He suggested a little outdoor film screening near his apartment.

I asked whether it had a red carpet.

"Mostly grass," he said.

I said yes before he could explain the seating.

At seven, I found him waiting beside a stack of folding chairs.

He had his cardigan and an ordinary paper bag.

I had worn shoes I couldn't cross wet grass in.

He looked at my feet and then at the path.

"We can go around," he said.

I took his arm and went around with him.

A woman at the entrance handed us two paper tickets.

She recognized him, looked at me, and smiled.

"Lovely to see people supporting the arts," she said.

She gave me a raffle booklet.

Miles received a second one.

Our fame was apparently worth twenty dollars to the folding-chair fund.

He paid for both books before I finished laughing.

I carried the tickets while he unfolded our chairs.

Mine sank sideways into a soft patch of ground.

I stood up with one foot in the air.

Miles moved it to a level spot, then tested his own.

His chair folded halfway around him.

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