Just After Midnight

by Catherine Ryan Hyde

thought seriously of a hasty exit. “If you don’t mind my saying so, I think you spend too much of your life being sorry.” It struck her as a strange observation, based on how little they knew of each other. But then she decided it had been an easy one, an observation that anyone could make at almost any moment after meeting her. The shame of that realization stole her wind and welded her to the webbed chair. For what could have been several minutes, they watched the sun inch down toward the horizon. It was so close to setting that it didn’t hurt to look right at it for a moment. Or, at least, it didn’t hurt Faith. This man—whose name she still did not know—was more sensitive. As if using a listening device trained to her thoughts, he said, “Greg,” and held out his right hand for her to shake. She shook it. It felt warm, and utterly uncalloused. Like a man who had never done a day’s hard labor in his life. Then she remembered he worked in IT. It also felt uncomfortably intimate. A genuine touch between two people, something Faith was in no way prepared to feel. “Faith,” she said, quickly letting go of the hand. Then they watched the sun setting for another minute or two. “In my own defense,” she said, “the hat and sunglasses do add to the impression that you’re a stalker sort of a person.” “And that’s another thing,” he said. “Why defend yourself? You seem to feel the need to defend yourself. You were using the level of caution you thought was appropriate at that moment. Wh...