The Heart of Henry Quantum by Pepper Harding

that Henry believed these happy patrons were dining on their own graves—the cloudless blue was a sign of drought, that’s all. He’d be obsessing about all the parched lawns and starving deer and stranded salmon and he wouldn’t enjoy his lunch.
    So she led him up the stairs to the dining room and, once inside, all the way to the back, as far away from the blue sky as possible. They settled into the last table and in this cave-like corner he finally began to relax. He even leaned toward her until the space between them was compressed into a few tentative inches. How long had it been since he’d been so close to those amazing lips, that adorable nose, those vivid, sparkling eyes? He soon retreated, though, aware that the scent of her hair and wind of her breath were like honey to him.
    â€œYou always liked this table,” she said.
    It’s true, he had.
    He decided not to speak. He wanted her to say what it was she had come back from the garage to say.
    But of course she did no such thing. Instead, she called to the waiter and ordered a glass of rosé. He knew this was his cue to order a glass of Pouilly-Fumé. She always ordered the rosé. He always ordered the Pouilly-Fumé. Surely she sensed the hesitation in him, but she just sat there smiling, her face an open book.
    â€œThe Pouilly-Fumé,” he finally told the waiter.
    â€œAnd pommes frites !” she cried.
    â€œ Oui , madam.”
    â€œTo nibble on while we decide.”
    Because that is also what they always did.
    The waiter disappeared, and Daisy folded her hands in front of her. She looked at Henry as if she were contemplating a great work of art.
    â€œOkay, Daisy,” he said, giving up. “What’s going on?”
    â€œWhy should anything be going on?”
    â€œPlease.”
    â€œOh, I don’t know,” she replied. “It’s just that when I saw you, I couldn’t stop myself.”
    â€œStop yourself from what?”
    She lowered her eyes. He wondered why women do that—lower their eyes. He knew there were these universal facial expressions—for instance, when you meet someone with whom you are acquainted, your eyebrows go up—it’s a way of saying you intend no violence—every single person in the world does it, regardless of culture—but what about lowering your eyes? Do guys lower their eyes? Does he? People in China don’t smile for no reason like we do. We’re always smiling. It certainly doesn’t mean we’re happy. It just means we’re morons. Emotion is so hard to pin down! He wondered what emotion his own face was conveying and what Daisy was intuiting from the curve of his mouth or the arch of his eyebrow, but he knew that even if he had had a mirror, he himself would not have been able to discern what his feelings were. He never looked natural in a mirror. It was like in quantum physics: observing the object alters it. So you can never see yourself as you are. Actually, when he looked in the mirror, the impression of his own unreality made him kind of nauseous.
    Unless he was combing his hair. Because your hair is somehow apart from you, an accoutrement, an add-on, like a lampshade.
    â€œWhat are you thinking about?” she asked.
    â€œYou,” he said.
    â€œWhat about me?”
    â€œEverything,” he said.
    The waiter came with the french fries and also set the wineglasses down before them. They ordered their lunches, and when the waiter left, they lifted their glasses, hers sparkling pink, his pale straw—
    â€œTo our time together,” she said, clinking his glass.
    He took a sip of wine and nibbled on a couple of potatoes.
    â€œSo, your divorce is final now?” he asked.
    â€œOh my God, yes, for a long time.”
    â€œHow long?”
    â€œTwo years.”
    â€œThat’s not all that long, Daisy. How did the kids take it?”
    â€œThey’re fine. Well, Denny was very angry for a