Page 58 of Mistaken Impression

As we’re riding down, I do up my jacket, and when I look up, she’s staring at me.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. It’s just that you usually change before you go home, so…”

I smile at her. “That’s why I’m doing up my jacket… so no-one on the bus will notice the unusually tight t-shirt.”

“You take the bus?”

“Yes.”

“I—I can give you a ride, if you like.”

I’m not about to say ‘no’ to an offer like that, and I undo my jacket again as I smile at her. “That would be great.”

The elevator doors open and we step out.

“What made you say ‘take-away’ tonight?” Ella looks up at me as we stroll between the rows of cars.

“I’ve got no idea.”

“I was going to ask if they really needed to make such a big deal of it. The phrase ‘take-away’ isn’t unheard of over here.”

“Maybe not. But we’d used ‘takeout’ all the way through the recording.”

“I know. That’s what I figured, and it’s why I kept my mouth shut,” she says, shrugging her shoulders. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologise. It was my fault, not yours. I was thinking after I did it, I’ve been used to saying ‘takeout’ for ages,” I say, shaking my head.

“Maybe you’re just tired.”

“Let’s hope so. I don’t need to keep screwing up like that.”

She stops right beside a red Mercedes. It’s a convertible, with a black canvas roof, which is currently closed, and I stare at it for a second.

“Is this yours?” I ask.

She nods her head. “It certainly is.”

I’m surprised, but do my best not to show it as she opens the car and lets us in. It has that new car smell, and while I dread to think what it cost, I guess that’s none of my business.

She starts the engine and looks over at me. “Where are we going?” she says.

“I’ll give you directions.”

She nods, reversing out of the parking space, and driving slowly from the car park and up onto the street. It’s late, and there’s less traffic than usual, which means it won’t take as long as I’d like to get back to my apartment. We’re about half-way there when Ella sighs and I look over at her, to see she’s smiling.

“I don’t know about you,” she says, “but I thought that was a hard week.”

“Apart from our first one, and maybe the Thanksgiving dinner last week, I thought it was the hardest yet… but please don’t apologise again. It wasn’t your fault.”

“If you insist. Although I’m done with cooking. I’m gonna order something in for tonight, I think.”

“Hmm… me too. My excuse is exhaustion, though. I can hardly claim to be done with cooking when I’m faking it.” She laughs, and the sound somehow gives me courage where it’s been lacking before. “W—Would you like to join me? We could order in together, couldn’t we? Unless you need to be somewhere else?”

“No, I don’t…”

That’s still not a definite answer, but coupled with her reaction to what I said to Bonnie, it feels vaguely promising. Not conclusive, but promising.

---