Someone More Compatible

“How many?”

“It doesn't matter.”

“Then tell me.”

He turned the screen toward her. She read it twice, once with her glasses and once without.

“That's a lot of people.”

“There are a lot of people.”

She put her glasses on the table. He moved them away from a wet ring left by his cup.

“Did you ask it about me?”

“It already knows about you.”

“That isn't what I asked.”

“Yes.”

“Before or after the lake?”

He looked toward the window. Their swimming things were still on the rail.

“Before.”

“You seemed happy at the lake.”

“I was.”

She nodded, and for a moment he thought this might be enough.

“Are they nearby?”

“Some.”

“Have you spoken to any?”

“No.”

“Do you want to?”

“I want to know why I shouldn't.”

She pulled her glasses toward her by one arm. After six hundred years, he knew when she was trying not to answer quickly.

“I don't think I can give you a reason that makes the number smaller.”

“That isn't what I'm asking.”

“I know.”

Outside, one of the towels slipped from the rail. Neither got up.

“Are we still going tomorrow?” he asked.

She looked at the fallen towel.

“I want to swim,” she said. “I haven't decided whether I want you there.”