On Friday, Eli suggested the late market in the covered arcade. June had a free evening, and the prospect of looking at things nobody could ask her to introduce seemed lovely.
They met beside a stall selling old records. Eli was holding one with a photograph of four men in identical trousers.
“I need an opinion,” he said.
“On the music or the tailoring?”
“The overall promise.”
June looked at the cover. Three men were smiling at the camera. One was looking toward the edge of the photograph as if expecting somebody to rescue him.
“He left,” she said, pointing.
“Before the second album?”
“Before the end of this picture.”
Eli put it back. They moved along the stall, reading the titles of records they didn't know and looking for the man who had found his way out. June liked the freedom of not being good at it. If she got something wrong, nobody lost anything.
At the next stall she tried on sunglasses too large for her face. Eli tried a pair so small he looked as if he were apologizing for having eyes. They laughed at each other. The stallholder watched patiently, pleased enough when Eli bought the little ones.
“You won't wear those,” June said.
“I just did.”
“In daylight.”
“They're for subtle sun.”
He took her hand as they walked on. A woman beside the book stall recognized him. June saw it happen: the longer look, the turn toward the friend, a whispered name.
Then the friend called, “How's Ruby?”
Eli stopped. June kept hold of his hand.
“You could ask her,” he said.
“We thought you might know.”
The women looked at June. One seemed embarrassed. The other seemed pleased to have been right about something.
June wanted to go back to the records. She wanted to keep walking slowly, buying nothing, looking silly in glasses without the silliness belonging to Ruby's video.
Instead she said, “Let's go.”
Eli nodded. They walked to the end of the arcade and out into the cool street. June let go of his hand so she could pull her coat round herself.
“We didn't have to,” he said.
“I know.”
“There's a place round the corner. They do chips late.”
“Do they ask you about women you didn't date?”
“They mostly ask if you want salt.”
June looked at him, then began to laugh. It didn't feel entirely good, but it was hers.
They bought chips and sat on the wide steps at the quiet end of the square. There were other people nearby, none interested in them. Eli held the packet between them and let June take the good crisp ones without defending his share.
“I'll remember this,” he said after the fourth.
“You can tell your friends.”
“I'll make a tearful video.”
He stopped. June looked at him.
“Sorry,” he said.
“No.” She took another chip. “It's funny. I just don't know whether I can laugh.”
“You don't have to.”
They ate quietly for a while. Across the square, somebody was teaching a child to roller-skate. The child went a few feet, stopped and applauded herself. June found it so sensible that she wanted to do the same thing after every difficult evening.
“When I was little,” she said, “I thought every town was at the top of its own map.”
Eli turned toward her. “What?”
“I thought other people had their town at the top and everything went down from there. Like a list.”
He laughed. “I thought if you got into a lift you had to breathe less or it might not carry you.”
“Who told you that?”
“Nobody. I was a very careful child.”
“You're not a careful adult.”
“No,” he said.
June looked down at the packet. It was almost empty. She hadn't meant to bring them back to it.
“I could bear the foolish thing you agreed to,” she said. “I don't like it. But people do foolish things when they need money. I could bear that.”
He folded the top of the packet once.
“I can't bear more lies,” she said. “I don't want the next thing I hear to make the last thing smaller again.”
Eli looked at her. She stayed quiet, giving him room to answer.
“I don't want to hurt you,” he said.
She could hear how much he wanted her to believe it. She touched the side of his hand.
“Then don't.”
He turned his hand over and held hers. They sat until the child in skates left with her parent, still applauding each time she managed three steps without help.
Then Eli put on the ridiculous little sunglasses though it was nearly dark. June laughed, suddenly and properly. He looked straight ahead, preserving what little dignity he had.
“I can see the future,” he said. “It's very small.”
“Is it good?”
He turned toward her. “This bit is.”
She kissed him. The glasses made it difficult and they had to stop to laugh. He took them off, and she kissed him again.
When they walked home, she talked about the dance-hall film she had watched on Thursday. He asked which part she would introduce. She told him about a woman dancing badly, then well, then badly again because she was having too much fun to remember the steps.
“That's your invitation,” he said.
June nodded. She could hear it already, in her own voice.