Jack rescued her from having to answer. “Come on. If we’re stranded, we should establish food before everyone else remembers they’re hungry.” The airport food court was half closed and fully overwhelmed.
They found two turkey sandwiches, a cup of tomato soup, and one slice of pecan pie at a cafeteria near Concourse C. Jack insisted the pie belonged to whoever had run farther. Claire accepted the ruling without protest. They carried the tray to a table beside a window where snow blurred the runway lights into watercolor.
For a while they ate without talking. The silence was comfortable enough to surprise Claire. She was used to first conversations built from resumes: where do you live, what do you do, what do you want people to know you do. Jack seemed willing to let quiet exist without repairing it.
Eventually he tapped the edge of her suitcase with one shoe. “You pack light for a wedding.” “I shipped the dress.” “That is either very smart or a terrible story about to happen.”
“It arrived yesterday. My sister called to confirm.” “Then at least your dress makes the ceremony.” “Comforting.”
“What do you do?” Claire pulled a piece of crust from her sandwich. “Assistant fashion editor. Mostly I carry garment bags for women who refer to beige as an emotional decision.”
Jack laughed. “You hate it.” “I didn’t say that.” “You changed your voice.”
She looked at him more sharply. “You notice too much.” “Occupational hazard.” “You draw buildings.”
“I draw places people reveal themselves in.” “That sounds like something an architect says on a date.” “We are sharing airport soup on Christmas Eve. I’m not sure the category system still applies.”