I was eating lunch alone on a little four-person wrought iron table in an open-air food court, watching the people go by. The place was crowded, so I could fade into the background. As much as that was possible while wearing a suit and a white shirt on a warm spring day. I had positioned myself so I could watch the face of a young woman at the next table, who seemed to be an Fi-dom. She was talking earnestly to her companions, and after I looked away from her to watch some people doing something silly with their young child, I caught her looking away quickly with a smile on her face.

A man in a slightly rumpled medium blue trench coat was buying his lunch from a vendor. He appeared to be about forty-five and was above average height and heavyset, like a middleweight who had gone to fat. He had his hands in his coat pockets and held his arms stiffly by his sides as he ordered, as if he were holding in the heat.

When he got his food, he turned around and surveyed the tables. All of them were full but mine. He met my eyes, I smiled at him and waved him over. This should be fun, I thought.

He sat down and introduced himself. He was wearing a plain, dark grey metal wedding band and seemed introverted but uncomplicated. I told him my name and we both admired the food we had purchased. He told me that he came there every week and always had the same sandwich, a chicken with Ceasar dressing.

I asked him what he did for a living, and he said he was an undertaker. That surprised me, and I said so. He explained that his father was an undertaker, but when he had graduated from college, he had left home and had traveled around and had had some jobs doing work in construction, which he really enjoyed. But the recession of 2008 had spooked him. He had been out of work for months, and during that time he decided that he never wanted to be without a job again. So, he returned home and went into the family business. He said he was now thirty-three and wanted to save up enough so he wouldn’t have to work forever.

He was thirty-three but his hair was graying and he looked like he was pushing fifty pretty hard.

“Undertaking is like roofing”, I said. “When your roof leaks or you have a dead body in the house, you aren’t going to put off that purchase.”

He said, “Roofing is a dangerous job. You can’t do it when you’re old.”

“Still, it’s outdoor work,” I said, and we both smiled. His face got enthusiastic and he agreed.

“So, do you like your job?”

His face went blank and he looked at me. “That’s a pretty unusual question to ask someone you’ve just met,” he said carefully.

“I’m a fairly rude guy”, I said. He accepted this evenly, as if he expected this from everyone.

So, being sure now, I went for it.

“You strike me as a guy who likes to work outdoors with his hands. Who likes to travel and who doesn’t want to be tied down. But also as a guy who wants security. Wants some basic stability in his life. I think you are really loyal to your friends, but you divide people into two categories.” I brought the edge of my palm down on the table. “The Good. And the Bad. But you’ll never tell the Bad that they are bad.”

He was watching me. Then he said, “You got me pretty good. That’s exactly how I am. How did you know all that stuff?”

“Here. First”, I said, getting out my phone and calling up a picture of my female LIE friend. The dark one where her face is clouded with anger and she’s on the phone looking like a serious business bitch, no compromises, no excuses accepted, and why the fuck are you wasting my time with this stupid shit? I showed it to him and asked, “What do you think of this woman?”

“She’s pretty”, he said.

I said, “Write this down. Stratiyevskaya. ESI.”