run his hands over the bar, as if there were a full piano right there in front of him. I watched as his fingers glided over the nonexistent keys. He was so confident as he pretended to play that I almost believed it.
“Excuse me,” he said as he was playing, “but I believe the harmonica would have come in by now.”
“What? I can’t play the harmonica.”
“Sure you can.”
“I don’t know the first thing.”
“You must know how musicians hold harmonicas. I assume you’ve seen at least one blues band in your life.”
“I mean, sure.”
He kept his head down, looking at the bar, playing. People were starting to look at us. He didn’t care. Neither did I.
“Let’s hear it.”
I surprised myself and I did it. I put my hands up to my mouth as if there were a harmonica between them and I ran my mouth over the space it would have occupied.
“Slower,” Sam said. “You’re not Neil Young.”
I laughed and stopped for a minute. “I don’t even know what I’m doing!”
“You’re doing great! Don’t stop.”
So I played along.
“All right, wait for a minute; there’s no harmonica in this part.”
I put my fake harmonica down as he kept playing. I could tell he was going through the full song, each note. I watched how effortless it was for him, how his fingers seemed to move with the expectation they’d make a beautiful sound. And yet they were making no sound at all.
“Now!” he said. “Get that harmonica going. This is your moment.”
“It is? I didn’t know!” I said, desperately pulling my hands up to my face and really committing to it.
And then Sam slowed and I could tell the song was ending. I took my hands down and I watched him as he hit the last few notes. And then he was done. And he looked at me.
“Next request?” he asked.
“Have dinner with me?” I asked him.
It just popped out of my mouth. I wanted to talk more, to spend more time with him, to hear more about him. I wanted more. “We can eat here or anywhere nearby if you’re in the mood for something in particular.”
“Emma . . .” he said seriously.
“Yeah?”
“Can we get burritos?”
Dos Tacos was brightly lit with orange and yellow undertones instead of the flattering blue light of the bar. But he still looked handsome. And I still felt beautiful.
Even when I bit into my gigantic carne asada deluxe burrito.
“If I could only eat Mexican food for the rest of my life, that would be fine with me,” Sam said. “Completely fine.”
I wanted to tell him that food in Mexico tasted nothing like this. I wanted to tell him about the three weeks Jesse and I spent in Mexico City, where we found this tiny little restaurant that served amazing chiles rellenos.
But I didn’t want to talk about the past.
“I wouldn’t mind at all,” I said. “Not one bit.” I reached over and took a chip out of the basket in front of us at the same time that Sam did.
We collided, ever so briefly, and I liked the feel of his hand on mine. This is what it’s like to be on a date, I thought. This is what it’s like to be normal.
“But if we’re talking about desserts,” Sam said, “I don’t know if I’d choose Mexican for the rest of my life. French maybe, éclairs and custards. Italian could be interesting, tiramisu and gelato.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Indian desserts are pretty incredible. They are all really creamy and nutty. Like rice puddings and pistachio ice cream type stuff. I might have to go with that.”
“Wow, that sounds great.”
I nodded. “But maybe nothing beats tres leches. Which is Mexican, I suppose. Although, almost every Latin American country you go to claims it’s theirs. It’s like baklava. I swear, I’ve spoken to at least twenty people who all claimed they know for a fact their people invented baklava.”
“That’s funny, because my family invented tres leches right here in the United States.”
I laughed. “And I personally invented baklava.”
Sam laughed and I looked around to see that everyone appeared to have cleared out and the staff behind the counter had started cleaning up.
“Oh no,” I said. “I think they’re closing.” I pulled my phone out of my purse to check the time. It was 10:02.
“Are you saying the night is over?” Sam asked as he finished the chips sitting in between us. The way he said it, the way he smiled at me and held my gaze,