Page 27 of Hello Stranger

It was frustrating beyond measure to look straight at a person and have no idea what he looked like. Especially since I really might have to pick him out of a lineup someday.

One of the tips Dr. Nicole had given me for coping with the sudden lack of faces in the world was to notice other things about people. Most of us used faces by default, she’d explained, but there were plenty of other details to notice. Height. Body shape. Hair. Gait.

“Gait?” I’d said, like that was a stretch.

“Everybody’s walk is a little different, once you start noticing,” Dr. Nicole said, doubling down.

So I tried it on the Weasel. What did he have besides a face?

But I guess I wasn’t very good at this yet. All that really stood out was the bowling jacket—which had the name Joe embroidered vintage style across the chest. The rest? Shaggy hair falling aggressively over his forehead. General tallness. Thick-framed gray hipster glasses.

And I don’t know what else. Arms and legs, I guess. Shoulders? Feet?

This was hard.

Normally, in elevator situations with strangers, even if you accidentally talk at the start, you settle back into standard elevator behavior pretty fast: eyes averted, quiet, as much space as possible between bodies.

But I could feel the Weasel breaking the rules. Standing too close. Trying to make eye contact.

Oh god. Had he thought I waschecking him outjust now?

I felt a sting of humiliation. That was scientific research, damn it!

I dropped my eyes straight to the floor and edged even farther away.

Unmistakable we-don’t-know-each-other body language.

But maybe he didn’t speak that language? I could feel him studying me as we rose to the next floor. “Great sweatpants,” he said then, his voice still at maximum friendliness.

“Thank you,” I replied. Nice and curt.

“Are they comfortable?”

What? Who cared? “Yes.”

He paused, and I thought my one-word answers had done their job. But then he revved back up. “How are you doing today?”

How was I doing? What kind of question was that? “I’m fine.”

“You look good,” he said, like he was somehow qualified to state that opinion.

A memory of his saying the wordsnothing but blubberpopped into my head, and it was all I could do to push out two clipped syllables. “Thank you.”

“How’s your health?”

My health?Um. We weren’t going to talk about my health—or anything at all about me. I didn’t know anybody who lived in my building well enough for a conversation like this. Except possibly Mr. and Mrs. Kim, who lived on the ground floor.

I went on the offensive. “My health is fine. How is yours?”

“Oh, good, you know. Yeah, I was up all night. But that’s nothing new.”

Oh my god. What a monster. How many other women had he menaced since the last time I saw him?

When we reached the top floor, we both started for the doors at the same time, and when he realized the bottleneck, he gestured for me to go ahead with a Shakespearean bow.

Really? Now he was ruiningShakespeare?

I went ahead. Walking a little faster than I really wanted to, trying to leave him behind.

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