The room had grown dark, the wood paneling thick like shadows in the corners. Outside, the space needle hovered, ghostly maternal.
“I wanna know what your secret is,” he said.
“What makes you think I have a secret?”
He doesn’t say.
“My eyes,” I answer for him.
“So you do have a secret.”
“Not really. My secret is that I’m completely open. But you have to learn how to ask the right questions. And you have to learn how to read me. I’m so open, my honesty is deceptive.”