romantic interlude

"James I'm sorry. I think you know what I mean. If you'd like to meet again, I want to."
The message came in an email.
From Miss Arabia.
The message should be of interest to sociological historians in that I think it makes me the first infidel in 1500 years to get an apology from a Muslim.
So a few days later here we are.
Me and Amal in a cafe.
The meeting is wary.
Facing each other in the half light over coffees.
She knows I think she's a spy but she can't be sure if I know anything more.
"Are you to be trusted?" she murmurs.
"No," I answer tonelessly.
"How much do you know?" she wonders.
"Enough," I reply.
"Were you fishing when you said I was a spy?"
"I might have been."
She eyes me coolly.
"You don't know anything," she whispers.
I smile.
"I know that sooner or later you're going to have to go to the bank," I tell her.
"Perhaps I've already been," she replies in whisper like nothing so much as Laurence Olivier out-acting Dustin Hoffman in Marathon Man.
Her face is a mask.
Mine is red, rubbery and transparent.
Hopefully Red Rubbery And Transparent is harder for Muslims to read than dark, inscrutable and mysterious.
"Maybe you still need me more than I need you," I venture, struggling to keep calm.
"Maybe I've seen Marathon Man and know how it ends," she shoots back.
"Maybe I've changed the ending ," I counter.
"Maybe this isn't a parody of Marathon Man at all," she intones with a mocking smile.
We kept it up all night.