“Are you ready to tour the city?” I asked.

“I guess.” Tyler picked up a black rectangular bag—made of synthetic fabric, not quite a briefcase—and smiled again. His smile was shy, though, and I noticed his gapped and crooked teeth for the first time. This couldn’t be the same man who had e-mailed me persistently over the past few weeks, confidently making sexual allusions and making me feel like a little girl with a crush.

“Did you fit your gee in there?” I pointed to his bag.

“Yeah, it’s on the bottom. I didn’t want to bring a big bag to walk around the city.” He shrugged.

I took Tyler through the Flat Iron District, walking slowly and window shopping. I felt as though my movements were stiff—looking at him out of the corners of my eyes, laughing a little too loudly sometimes and smiling only half-heartedly at other times, and I didn’t know what to do with my hands. I resolved to keep them in my jacket pockets; the cold, dry breeze burned at them anyway. But then whenever I wanted to point something out to Tyler—the holiday wreaths hanging from the streetlamps or the occasional businesspeople who rushed down the street with briefcases ridiculously the size of suitcases—I could never get my hand out in time. By then, the moment had always passed and Tyler was looking at something else.