"I'll tell you mine," he said, "if you tell me yours."
"Ha," said Gina. "No."
"No?"
"No. I don't know you. You could be anybody. You could be a serial killer. You could be a Republican."
He winced in a way that told her she had hit at least one of those, and she laughed so hard that a woman at the next table looked over.
"All right," Graham said, recovering his dignity. "Then we'll make it fair. We'll compete for it."
Gina set down her mug.
Later she would think that if he had said almost anything else — anything reasonable, polite, gentle — she would have finished her cocoa and gone home to Bridgeport on the Halsted bus, and that would have been the end of it.