“I’m not from round here.”

“I can tell.”

“You can?”

“I can tell.”

“Is it that obvious?”

It isn’t that obvious, I can’t really tell. I’m trying to appear aloof, aloft, cool, cold. Calm.

“It is to me.”

“Why? What am I doing differently?”

“Well, for starters,” I pause. I glance up at the moon. I can’t see it because it’s 11am. “For starters, you’re wearing black shoes. We wear white shoes here.”

She swivels her not-from-round-here eyeballs down to our feet. He’s right, she thinks. Probably. Just then Pablo arrives with the bread. “Hola amigo!” He says. He’s wearing blue shoes.

“Where is Pablo from?” Asks Alyssa.

“Pablo is from Russia. Do not trust him.”