"You said I was making a mistake."
"You were."
"Which one, though? You said most of it. You never said which one was the mistake."
Imre thought about it, honestly, the way he seemed to think about everything. "Thinking you already knew," he said finally. "That was the one. About her, about me, about your own head. Everything else was just what that one looked like from the outside."
Gerrit nodded slowly. Down at the curb, Noor tapped the horn, once, lightly. He looked at her through the windshield, at her face in the glow of the dashboard, and she raised one hand from the steering wheel, not quite a wave.
"Are you coming to the game Friday?" he asked Imre. "Regional semis. Port Clinton. I'll just be standing there in a jacket, but."
"I don't really like football," Imre said.