“I bowled you over,” I remind her, and she doesn’t deny it.

“Anyway,” I say. “So far you only have two things—confused and scared.”

“All right, all right. I’ll give you what you want and say ‘happy.’ ”

I sigh dramatically. “You could’ve said that one first.”

“I like suspense,” she says.

“No you don’t.”

“You’re right. I hate suspense.”

“Happy because of me?” I ask.

“And not being deported. But mostly you.”

She pulls our joined hands to her lips and kisses mine. I could stay here forever interrupting our talking with kissing, interrupting our kissing with talking.

“When are we doing the staring-into-each-other’s-eyes thing?” I ask.

She rolls the very eyes that I want to stare into. “Later. After your interview,” she says.

“Don’t be scared,” I tease.

“What’s to be scared of? All you’ll see is iris and pupil.”

“The eyes are the windows to the soul,” I counter.

“Stuff and nonsense,” she says.

I check the time on my phone unnecessarily. I know it’s almost time for my interview, but I want to linger out here in sky city some more. “Let’s get in a couple more questions,” I say. “Lightning round. What’s your most treasured memory?”

“The first time I got to eat ice cream in a cone instead of in a cup,” she says with no hesitation.

“How old were you?”

“Four. Chocolate ice cream while wearing an all-white Easter Sunday dress.”

“Whose idea was that?” I ask.

“My father’s,” she says, smiling. “He used to think I was the greatest thing ever.”

“And he doesn’t anymore?”

“No,” she says.

I wait for her to continue, but she moves on: “What’s your memory?”

“We took a family trip to Disney World when I was seven. Charlie really wanted to go on Space Mountain, but my mom thought it’d be too scary for me and she wouldn’t let him go by himself. And neither of my parents wanted to go.”

She tightens her grip on my hands, which is cute since I clearly survived the experience. “So what happened?”

“I convinced my mom that I really wasn’t scared. I told her I’d been looking forward to the ride since forever.”

“But you weren’t?” she asks.

“No. I was scared shitless. I just did it for Charlie.”

She bumps my shoulder and teases. “I already like you. You don’t have to convince me that you’re a saint.”

“That’s the thing. I wasn’t being saintly. I think I knew our relationship wasn’t going to last. I was just trying to convince him I was worth it. It worked too. He told me I was brave and he let me finish all his popcorn.”

I tilt my head back and look up at the clouds. They’re barely moving across the sky.

“Do you think it’s funny that both of our favorite memories are about the people we like the least now?” I ask.

“Maybe that’s why we dislike them,” she says. “The distance between who they were and who they are is so wide, we have no hope of getting them back.”

“Maybe,” I say. “You know what the worst part of that story is?”

“What?”

“I hate roller coasters to this day because of that trip.”

She laughs, and I laugh with her.

SCIENTISTS THEORIZE that the first “eyes” were nothing more than a pigmented, light-sensitive spot on the skin of some ancient creature. That spot gave it the ability to sense light from dark—an advantage, since darkness could indicate that a predator was close enough to block out light. Because of this, they survived more, reproduced more, and passed this ability down to their offspring. Random mutations created a deepening depression in the light-sensitive spot. This depression led to slightly better vision and, therefore, more survival. Over time, that light-sensitive spot evolved to become the human eye.

How did we go from eyes as a survival mechanism to the idea of love at first sight? Or the idea that eyes are the windows to the soul? Or to the cliché of lovers staring endlessly into each other’s eyes?

Studies have shown that the pupils of people who are attracted to each other dilate from the presence of dopamine. Other studies suggest that threads in the eye can indicate personality tendencies, and that maybe eyes are a kind of window to the soul after all.

And what about the lovers who spend hours staring into each other’s eyes? Is it a display of trust? I will let you in close and trust you not to hurt me while I’m in this vulnerable position. And if trust is one of the foundations of love, perhaps the staring is a way to build or reinforce it. Or maybe it’s simpler than that.

A simple search for connection.

To see.

To be seen.

ATTORNEY FITZGERALD’S DOOR is at the end of a long, gray, and mostly featureless hallway. I try (and fail) not to take this as a sign about my future. There’s no name on the door, just a number. No one answers when I knock. Maybe he’s left for the day already? Because that would be ideal. Then it wouldn’t be my fault that I didn’t get to go to Yale and become a doctor. Never mind that I’m ten minutes late because of all the kissing. I regret nothing.