Her eyebrow stud turns purple in the light from her phone.

"You ready?" I ask.

She ignores me, dabbing intently at the screen.

"I get it," I say, shrugging. "Obviously—"

She presses a finger to her lips. She seems to notice the dessert between us for the first time. She reaches for her spoon and slices off a scallop of cinnamon and cream. "There's nothing wrong with having options," she says.

"Guess not," I say. I take out my wallet.

She smiles. Here pupils are pinholes in the candlelight.

"Anyway, it's late." The waiter appears at my elbow with the card reader. I avoid eye contact as I insert my card.

"Your profile said you were a night owl."

"And yours said you were a student of cultural communication." The card reader spits out its coil of tape.

"Aliens are a culture," she says, shaking her head. She looks down at her phone.

I stand and push my chair in. "I'm going home."
   
"Aren't you curious?" she asked.

"Not curious enough."

Static sieves through the phone's speakers. She looks at me. "All I need is a car."

"I'm sure you'll have no trouble finding one."

She reaches across the table and presses a palm over my hand. "Try something with me."

"It's been a long night." I stare down at our hands. My fingers weave with hers. Her fingers are warm. The edge of the table presses into my belly as our elbows meet.

"What do you feel?"

"It hurts," I say.

She nods. Her eyes are the color of grape leaves. "Aliens are drawn to pain."

I release her hand and lean back in the booth. She dabs her napkin into the water pitcher and spreads it over my wrist.

"You've done this before," I say.

"That's what I've been trying to tell you." She smiles at something just over my shoulder.

I can feel the heat of my wrist through the damp napkin. "What was that?"

"I can't tell you. I can only show you."

Outside a car slides into view. Its hood shines dimly over the darkened pavement.

.