I shake my head. "Of Freud."
He shakes his head and smiles. His teeth are too white to be real.
"Only when his theories suit me."
I raise my eyebrows. "That’s a glib way of living."
His smile doesn't fade. He sits sideways in the chair, one hand resting on his leg, fingers relaxed. The other hand is on the table, holding loosely onto the cup of coffee he just ordered.
He doesn't respond. He doesn't leave. He sits next to me as if he’s been invited, looking at me with a stare that makes me feel naked.
"Don’t you think Freud’s theories are outdated?" he asks.
One sentence, and I have my back up. "If he was outdated, the field of psychology wouldn’t be based on his findings."
The stranger shrugs. "He suggests that we’re all programmed to function a certain way, and that’s it. We have to play the hand we’ve been dealt."
I ought to tell him off. I should tell him to leave. He's rude and invasive.
"You don’t believe that we're all put together in a way that can be understood?"
"I believe in free will," he says.
I can't tell him off. He's so comfortable in his own skin; it makes me uncomfortable in mine. How do you tell someone they're wrong when their existence screams that they believe they're right?
Yes, he's probably using all the right cues. He knows his body. He’s mastered the language of speaking without words. It doesn't mean anything.
He is also incredibly hot. I see men often, but I rarely want to look twice. He smiles at me as if he knows what I'm thinking. His eyes make me uncomfortable, like they're looking into my soul.
I clear my throat. "Was there something you meant to tell me?" I ask. "A reason why you’re sitting here?"
He shakes his head. His eyes never stray. He doesn't look out the window, or at his hands, or at the floor. His gaze is unfaltering.
"The chair was empty."
"So, you invited yourself to join me?"
He looks around for the first time, taking in the other patrons.
"I wasn’t interested in anyone else."
I can't help myself. I blush. Heat creeps up from my collar, and I know my cheeks are bright red. To confirm my suspicions, he grins broadly.
"Who are you?" I ask. Anything to get the attention away from me.
"Thomas," he says. Such a classic name. "Thomas Silber."
Classic and foreign.
"Nicole," I say. "Shoemaker."
"That’s German, you know."
I nod. I was aware that I had German blood somewhere in my lineage. "Everyone in America was someone else, once, before they became Americans."
Thomas shrugs. It's a beautiful shrug, confident without being offensive.
"What is a beautiful woman like you doing indoors on a day like this?" he asks, gesturing toward the window.