You took me out for dinner, once.
     “Let’s play a game,” you said, after the dreadlocked waitress took us to our seats at The Little Snail. All around us were smoke and faces. Hoots and boots. A man with a hat pulled low over one eye sat on the stage and played a jazzy tune on the trumpet. There was smoke and everything glowed red.
     “What’s the game?” I put my hands under my chin and kind of leaned forward, in that way teen magazines told you to do if you wanted to look engaged.
     “Spot The Traumatized Person,” you said.
     I looked at you funny. “How can you tell?” What I didn’t ask was, Why?
     You peered out the window. The light from the stage made your face look red and shadowy, like a mask dipped in red molasses.
     “It is difficult,” you said, “because sometimes they’re not inside. They are out there.”
     We watched a woman wearing a visor walk her dog across the street. A man waved his hand dramatically while talking into his headset, and a group of children fed each other ice cream while an old couple loaded groceries into the back of their van.
     The waitress came back with our orders. I had cherry pie while you had pecan. You also had alcohol, which you passed to me when no one was looking. I took a sip, because it seemed like the thing to do.
     “Did you find any?” I asked, fighting back the bitter taste.
     “Just one,” you said.
     I looked around us. A small crowd cheered on some sports playoff being broadcasted on the TV. A group of older kids sat by the bar counter and texted on their phones more than they talked to each other. A couple with matching leather collars shared a kiss by the doorway.
     I didn’t see the trauma.
     But you were leaning in. You forked a large chunk out of my pie, which you then popped into your mouth with a gleeful expression.
     “My bad,” you said. Your lips curved upward. Your eyes were teasing. It was almost like you were daring me to do something about it.
     I didn’t.