Walter knocked at 8:02, which meant he had been standing in the hallway since 7:55, working up to it.
"Report," Theo said, holding the door.
Walter took the stool at the counter and opened his notebook, a small green field book with a page for every Tuesday. He lived across the hall and in six years had never once borrowed an egg. He was sixty-eight, a retired land surveyor, and he approached romance the way he had once approached property lines, with a tripod. He wore the gray cardigan Theo had approved as warm and not alarming.
"I did the eye contact," he said. "Three seconds, like you said."
"And?"
"I did it for the whole class. I didn't blink. I wanted to be thorough."
Theo put down his fork. "Three seconds, Walter. Then you look away. Then you come back."
"Signor Fabbri asked if I was unwell. Chiara said I looked like a lighthouse." Walter frowned at his notes. "She laughed, though."
"Did you mirror her? Subtly?"
"She tucked her hair behind her ear, so I tucked mine." Walter touched the side of his head, where he remembered it being.
Chiara was the name the Italian teacher had given her on the first night, along with Gualtiero for Walter. It was all Walter had of her. He had been too shy to ask for the real one, and since week two it had been too late.
"Where are we overall?" Theo asked.
Walter consulted the notebook. "Week one, she said buongiorno to the room. Week two, she said it to me, although the room was also there. Tonight she asked to borrow a pencil."
"That's an opening."
"I gave her the one with the best eraser. Then I tried the compliment. She keeps antacids in her cardigan, so I said, 'A woman who plans ahead.'"
"She'd just borrowed a pencil," Theo said.
"I noticed that afterward." Walter turned a page. "She said every woman over sixty carries Tums, Gualtiero."
"Well, she's not wrong." Theo's own mother kept Tums in every coat she owned, along with a spare umbrella and a single glove.
Walter wrote that down.
The next Tuesday, Theo's mother called while he was washing dishes. She never called on Tuesdays. Tuesdays were knitting.
"Teddy, I'm in a parking lot, so I'll say this fast. I haven't been knitting."
"You haven't?"
"I've made one sleeve since March, and it isn't for anyone. I'm taking Italian. Tuesdays, at the community college. I didn't tell you because you'd have opinions."
Theo turned off the tap and looked at the empty stool. "Italian," he said.
"You'd have a spreadsheet."
On his laptop, a spreadsheet called WALTER, PHASE TWO sat open. He lowered the lid.
"Anyway," his mother said, "there's a man."
"How big is the class, Mom?"
"Eight people. Why?"
"No reason. What does the man do?"
"He stares. The whole class, like a lighthouse. And he copies everything I do. I tucked my hair behind my ear and he stroked his bald head like he was calming it down. His name is Gualtiero, but in real life he's probably a Gary."
Theo sat down on Walter's stool without deciding to. "Is he bothering you?"
"Bothering me? I've started wearing earrings. And last week he lent me his best pencil and told me I was a woman who plans ahead. I'd just borrowed the pencil."
"Mom."
"Somebody is feeding him lines. They sound like a pamphlet." She laughed and started her next sentence before she finished the laugh. "But he writes down everything I say in a little notebook. Your father needed his sister to remind him when my birthday was. He'll never ask me anything, of course. For crying out loud, I'd say yes to a sandwich."
"Mom, I have no opinions."
"I can hear them from here. Go eat something."
She hung up. At 8:02 Walter was at the door in his good tie, holding a typed sheet of paper. "Lesson four. The invitation. I've prepared remarks."
He unfolded the page and held it at arm's length. The pauses were underlined. "Chiara, you once called me a lighthouse. A lighthouse keeps watch and asks for nothing. Tonight I would like to request permission to dock."
Theo closed his eyes. "Walter. Forget everything I told you."
Walter put a hand over his breast pocket, where the notebook lived. "Everything?"
"Everything. Starting with the tucking. When you ask her to dinner, just say you'd like to take her out. Somewhere with sandwiches."
"What if she says no?"
"She won't."
"How do you know?"
"Lucky guess," Theo said.
Walter wrote that down.