“Of course I have.”
“Then why don’t you like romance novels?”
“Because real love is complicated. In books, a man gets caught in the rain, says three beautiful sentences, and suddenly everyone is kissing in a garden.”
I shrugged. “That sounds convenient.”
“Convenient? Daniel, real men can’t even remember anniversaries.”
I held up both hands.
“I have never forgotten an anniversary.”
“You’ve never had one to forget.”
“That is an unnecessarily personal attack.”
She laughed until she began coughing, and I reached for her water.
Afterward, she studied me with an expression I couldn’t quite understand.
“You’re a good man, Daniel.”
I made a face. “You say that as if you’ve known me for years.”
“Sometimes it takes years to recognize a bad man. Sometimes it takes five minutes to recognize a good one.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I changed the subject.
That became our routine.
I visited her three times a week. We read novels, played cards, argued about films, and talked about everything from politics to the price of groceries.
