Street Dreams by Faye Kellerman Page A

that?”
    “We share our food. That is why everything is served on one plate. If we have
very
good time, we feed each other.”
    “What?”
    He placed some spiced peas atop the
injera
and made a mini-sandwich. “
Minhag Hamakom.
That is Hebrew for the custom of the house. You must eat from my hands. Otherwise they think you don’t like me.”
    “This is for real?”
    “Look around.”
    I did. There was a twenty-something Ethiopian couple across from us. He wore a T-shirt and jeans and had Rastafarian curls;
     she had on a hot pink silk blouse and black stretch pants, and had her hair tied in a ponytail. She was indeed feeding her
     lunch companion with her hands.
    “Okay,” I said warily. “As long as I get to feed you.”
    “Of course. That is the point.”
    As soon as his hands touched my mouth, I started laughing and instinctively backed away. But then I ate the proffered morsel,
     my tongue grazing his fingertips. I returned the gesture by feeding him
injera
wrapped around collard greens. He had the grace to take the food without being sleazy about it. But it didn’t matter. Feeling
     his lips against my skin set off my juices. Apparently, he felt something, too.
    We locked eyes. Then I looked down. I knew I was red-faced. “It’s an icebreaker, I’ll say that much.”
    His eyes were still focused on me. “I have good reasons for suggesting Ethiopian.”
    I wagged a finger at him.
    He scooped up some cabbage. “Here. We do it again. Second time is easier.”
    He could have been talking about other things.
    I took the food without protest, enjoying his fingers on my mouth. Then I fed him a chunk of pumpkin. He chewed, the tip of
     his tongue giving a brief swipe at the corner of his mouth, his topaz eyes having dilated so they looked nearly black.
    I gave him a half smile. “Is it extra to rent a room in back?”
    He burst into laughter. “Eating should be stimulating.”
    “Stimulating, yes, not X-rated.”
    Again he laughed. We ate a few minutes in silence, letting the air around us cool off. Finally, I sat up in my chair and let
     out a whoosh of breath. “I think I’ve had it.”
    “It was okay?”
    “It was terrific. It was more than lunch, it was fun. Thank you.”
    “You’re very welcome. For me too. Coffee?”
    “Sure.” I paused. “You drink your own coffee, right?”
    He smiled. “Yes, you drink your own coffee … unless you make your own new tradition.”
    “Thank you, I think I’ve had enough adventure for one day.”
    Koby signaled the waitress and ordered for us in Amharic.
    “You come here often?” I asked him.
    “More in the beginning when I feel a little homesick. If I miss anything now, I think I miss
Shabbat.”
    I said, “So Friday night is still on, if you want.”
    “No, no, no. I didn’t mean it to be a hint.”
    “It’s fine, Koby.” A pause. “I insist you come.”
    He regarded my face with intensity. “I can be pushy. You feel okay about it?”
    “Of course.” I was aiming for low-key confidence. “Since I know the way, I’ll pick you up.”
    The waitress brought over the coffee in a small clay pot and poured it into two demitasse cups. It was stronger than espresso,
     but not as strong as Turkish coffee. We exchanged smiles as we drank. Awkwardness stood between us because electricity had
     gotten in the way of simple platonic conversation. Absently, I glanced at my watch. My eyes widened. “Oh gosh! I’m late.”
     I slapped my forehead. “The meter!”
    He stood first and helped me with my chair. “You check the meter. I’ll pay—”
    “We’ll split it.”
    “No, no, I asked you out.”
    I didn’t insist. “So I’ll see you on Friday, then.” I pulled out my business card, thought about giving him my phone number,
     but gave him my e-mail instead. As attractive as he was, I still had my reservations. I hadn’t Googled him yet or run him
     through the network to see if he had a sheet. “This is the best way to reach me. I’ll need