Miriam leaned across the hotel lounge table as if she only wanted to hear him better. That was the safe version. The truthful version was that she wanted to see whether Thomas still knew how to read a woman sitting close enough to change his breathing.
She was sixty-one, old enough to enjoy the silence after a move. Younger women sometimes rushed to explain themselves. Miriam preferred to let a man sit inside the question until he either understood it or proved he never would.
Thomas missed the first signal. He talked about the piano, then the wine, then a conference he had no interest in. Miriam let him wander. Nervous men reveal themselves when they run out of harmless topics.
Then she moved her glass aside and leaned closer. The dark red dress caught the lamp light, but that was not the real message. The message was the pause afterward.
Most men would think the lean was the whole thing. It was not. The pause asked whether Thomas was brave enough to stay quiet without making a joke.
He finally stopped talking. His hand came off the menu, and his eyes found hers instead of the room. Miriam smiled because late understanding was still understanding.
When he asked what she meant, she told him he had already answered. A man who could stop performing was worth one more drink.
Later, by the elevator, Thomas admitted he had nearly ruined it by talking too much. Miriam gave him a look that was half mercy, half warning. She liked men who learned quickly, but she liked them even more when they remembered the lesson.
So when the doors opened, she stepped inside first and left him one clean chance to follow without asking a foolish question.
