My laugh always arrives before I do. My sister used to say that gently, while my former husband said the same thing as a complaint. So for my first date with Nermin I chose a restaurant with loud music. I sent him the address, put on a green dress, and decided to laugh politely, with my mouth closed. After a divorce, a person sometimes imagines freedom as the chance to hide more successfully whatever attracted criticism before.
Nermin arrived early and selected a quieter table at the far end of the room. He wanted us to hear each other. That small kindness ruined my defensive plan. We talked about work, his sister, and my unsuccessful attempt to grow a lemon from a seed. When he described watering an artificial office plant once, my laugh burst out so loudly that a woman at the neighboring table turned around. I immediately apologized.
Nermin looked confused. He asked whether I had spilled something. I said I was apologizing for the volume. He nodded but did not answer quickly enough, so I filled his silence with all the familiar sentences. For the rest of the appetizer I gave short answers. I was perfectly pleasant company and entirely absent. He put down his cutlery and asked whether I really wanted to stay or would rather go home.
I could have blamed exhaustion. Instead I said I was waiting for him to tell me the whole restaurant had turned around. Nermin looked around. He said he had not noticed, because he was thinking his attempt at a joke had sounded foolish. He rarely laughed aloud. When he found something especially funny, his eyes watered and his face became almost serious. All evening we had been misreading each other's faces.
He did not declare me perfect or promise I would never annoy him. He said he did not want dinner with a muted version of me if he could meet the real one. We left before dessert because the music had grown so loud we could no longer hear the waiter. Outside I told him I had played recordings of rain to my lemon plant. He stopped beside a shop window and wiped his eyes. Finally I recognized his laughter.
For our second date we went to the park. On the third I met his cat, who considered both of us unnecessary. I still sometimes catch myself covering my mouth with my hand. Nermin does not pull it away as though I need fixing. He simply continues his story. Last week I laughed so loudly in a shop that my sister heard me from the next aisle. This time I did not wish to disappear before she found me.