A Reasonable Number of Excuses

By the time Nadia ran out of shoes to mismatch on purpose — a supply, it turned out, that lasted a suspiciously specific three weeks — she had accumulated a genuinely staggering number of reasons to walk past Omar's shop that had nothing whatsoever to do with him.

She needed thread. She needed the good bakery two doors down. She needed, apparently, to personally verify the weather on that particular block of the street on a near-daily basis.

"You know," Omar said, on the ninth reason-that-wasn't-a-reason, not looking up from the boot he was resoling, "there's a shop that sells thread that isn't fourteen minutes out of your way."

"I like the walk."

"You hate walking. You told me that yourself. You said, and I'm quoting, 'walking is a scam invented by people who don't own a bicycle.'"

"I've had a change of philosophy."

"Mm." He set down the boot. Wiped his hands on the leather apron he wore like it had been issued to him at birth. "Nadia."

"That's my name."

"You could just say you wanted to see me. It would save you an enormous amount of thread money."

The bell over the door chimed as another customer walked in, and Nadia used the interruption as the coward's excuse it was, but not before she caught the small, unguarded smile Omar wore for exactly as long as he thought she wasn't looking.

She was always looking. She just hadn't planned on getting caught noticing that she noticed.