e taxi arrived and we made an intermediate stop at the flower shop. I had not been inside this shop—or indeed purchased flowers at all—since I stopped visiting Daphne. Daphne for Daphne; obviously the appropriate choice for this evening was roses. e vendor recognized me and I informed her of Daphne’s death. After I purchased a dozen long-stemmed red roses, consistent with standard romantic behavior, she snipped a small quantity of daphne and inserted it in the buttonhole of my jacket. e smell brought back memories of Daphne. I wished she was alive to meet Rosie.

I tried to phone Rosie as the taxi approached her apartment building, but there was no answer. She was not outside when we arrived, and most of the bell buttons did not have names beside them. ere was a risk that she had chosen not to accept my invitation.

It was cold and I was shaking. I waited a full ten minutes, then called again. ere was still no answer and I was about to instruct the driver to leave when she came running out. I reminded myself that it was I who had changed, not Rosie: I should have expected her to be late. She was wearing the black dress that had stunned me on the night of the Jacket Incident. I gave her the roses. I read her expression as surprised.

en she looked at me.

“You look different . . . really different . . . again,” she said. “What happened?”

“I decided to reform myself.” I liked the sound of the word: re-form. We got in the taxi, Rosie still holding the roses, and traveled the short distance to the restaurant in silence. I was looking for information about her attitude toward me and thought it best to let her speak first. In fact she didn’t say

anything until she noticed that the taxi was stopping outside Le Gavroche

—the scene of the Jacket Incident. “Don, is this a joke?”

I paid the driver, exited the taxi, and opened Rosie’s door. She stepped out but was reluctant to proceed, clutching the roses to her chest with both hands. I put one hand behind her and guided her toward the door, where the maître d’ whom we had encountered on our previous visit was standing in his uniform. Jacket Man.

He recognized Rosie instantly, as evidenced by his greeting. “Rosie.”

en he looked at me. “Sir?”

“Good evening.” I took the flowers from Rosie and gave them to the maître d’. “We have a reservation in the name of Tillman. Would you be kind enough to look after these?” It was a standard formula but very confidence-boosting. Everyone seemed very comfortable now that we were behaving in a predictable manner. e maître d’ checked the reservation list. I took the opportunity to smooth over any remaining difficulties and made a small prepared joke.

“My apologies for the misunderstanding last time. ere shouldn’t be any difficulties tonight. Unless they overchill the white Burgundy.” I smiled. A male waiter appeared, the maître d’ introduced me, briefly complimenting me on my jacket, and we were led into the dining room and

to our table. It was all very straightforward.

I ordered a bottle of Chablis. Rosie still seemed to be adjusting.

e sommelier appeared with the wine. He was looking around the room, as if for support. I diagnosed nervousness.

“It’s at thirteen degrees, but if, sir would like it less chilled . . . or more chilled . . .”

“at will be fine, thank you.”

He poured me a taste and I swirled, sniffed, and nodded approval according to the standard protocol. Meanwhile, the waiter who had led us to the table reappeared. He was about forty, BMI approximately twenty-two, quite tall.

“Professor Tillman?” he said. “My name’s Nick and I’m the headwaiter. If there’s anything you need, or anything that’s a problem, just ask for me.”

“Much appreciated, Nick.”

Waiters introducing themselves by name was more in the American tradition than a local custom. Either this restaurant deliberately chose the

practice as a point of difference, or we were being given unusually personal treatment. I guessed the latter: I was probably marked as a dangerous person. Good. I would need all the support I could get tonight.

Nick handed us menus.

“I’m happy to leave it to the chef,” I said. “But no meat, and seafood only if it’s sustainable.”

Nick smiled. “I’ll speak to the chef and see what he can do.”

“I realize it’s a little tricky, but my friend lives by some quite strict rules,” I said.

Rosie gave me a very strange look. My statement was intended to make a small point, and I think it succeeded. She tried her Chablis and buttered a bread roll. I remained silent.

Finally she spoke.

“All right, Gregory Peck. What are we doing first? e My Fair Lady story or the big revelation?”

is was good. Rosie was prepared to discuss things directly. In fact, directness had always been one of Rosie’s positive attributes, though on this occasion she had not identified the most important topic.

“I’m in your hands,” I said. Standard polite method for avoiding a choice and empowering the other person.

“Don, stop it. You know who my father is, right? It’s Table-Napkin Man, isn’t it?”

“Possibly,” I said, truthfully. Despite the positive outcome of the meeting with the Dean, I did not have my lab key back. “at isn’t what I want to share.”

“All right, then. Here’s the plan. You share your thing; tell me who my father is; tell me what you’ve done to yourself; we both go home.”

I couldn’t put a name to her tone of speech and expression, but it was clearly negative. She took another sip of her wine.

“Sorry.” She looked a little apologetic. “Go. e sharing thing.”

I had grave doubts about the likely efficacy of my next move, but there was no contingency plan. I had sourced my speech from When Harry Met Sally. It resonated best with me and with the situation and had the additional advantage of the link to our happy time in New York. I hoped Rosie’s brain would make that connection, ideally subconsciously. I drank the remainder of my wine. Rosie’s eyes followed my glass, then she looked up at me.

“Are you okay, Don?”

“I asked you here tonight because when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible.”

I studied Rosie’s expression carefully. I diagnosed stunned.

“Oh my God,” said Rosie, confirming the diagnosis. I followed up while she was still receptive.

“It seems right now that all I’ve ever done in my life is making my way here to you.”

I could see that Rosie could not place the line from e Bridges of Madison County that had produced such a powerful emotional reaction on the plane. She looked confused.

“Don, what are you . . . what have you done to yourself?” “I’ve made some changes.”

“Big changes.”

“Whatever behavioral modifications you require from me are a trivial price to pay for having you as my partner.”

Rosie made a downward movement with her hand, which I could not interpret. en she looked around the room and I followed her eyes. Everyone was watching. Nick had stopped partway to our table. I realized that in my intensity I had raised my voice. I didn’t care.

“You are the world’s most perfect woman. All other women are irrelevant. Permanently. No Botox or implants will be required.”

I heard someone clapping. It was a slim woman of about sixty sitting with another woman of approximately the same age.

Rosie took a drink of her wine, then spoke in a very measured way. “Don, I don’t know where to start. I don’t even know who’s asking me—the old Don or Billy Crystal.”

“ere’s no old and new,” I said. “It’s just behavior. Social conventions.

Glasses and haircut.”

“I like you, Don,” said Rosie. “Okay? Forget what I said about outing my father. You’re probably right. I really really like you. I have fun with you.

e best times. But you know I couldn’t eat lobster every Tuesday. Right?”

“I’ve abandoned the Standardized Meal System. I’ve deleted thirty-eight percent of my weekly schedule, excluding sleep. I’ve thrown out my old T-shirts. I’ve eliminated all of the things you didn’t like. Further changes are possible.”

“You changed yourself for me?” “Only my behavior.”

Rosie was silent for a while, obviously processing the new information. “I need a minute to think,” she said. I automatically started the timer on

my watch. Suddenly Rosie started laughing. I looked at her, understandably puzzled at this outburst in the middle of a critical life decision.

“e watch,” she said. “I say ‘I need a minute’ and you start timing. Don is not dead.”

I waited. I looked at my watch. When there were fifteen seconds left, I assessed that it was likely that she was about to say no. I had nothing to lose. I pulled the small box from my pocket and opened it to reveal the ring I had purchased. I wished I had not learned to read expressions, because I could read Rosie’s now and I knew the answer.

“Don,” said Rosie. “is isn’t what you want me to say. But remember on the plane, when you said you were wired differently?”

I nodded. I knew what the problem was. e fundamental, insurmountable problem of who I was. I had pushed it to the back of my mind since it had surfaced in the fight with Phil. Rosie didn’t need to explain. But she did.

“at’s inside you. You can’t fake—sorry, start again. You can behave perfectly, but if the feeling’s not there inside . . . God, I feel so unreasonable.”

“e answer is no?” I said, some small part of my brain hoping that for once my fallibility in reading social cues would work in my favor.

“Don, you don’t feel love, do you?” said Rosie. “You can’t really love me.” “Gene diagnosed love.” I knew now that he had been wrong. I had watched thirteen romantic movies and felt nothing. at was not strictly true. I had felt suspense, curiosity, and amusement. But I had not for one moment felt engaged in the love between the protagonists. I had cried no tears for Meg Ryan or Meryl Streep or Deborah Kerr or Vivien Leigh or

Julia Roberts.

I could not lie about so important a matter. “According to your definition, no.”

Rosie looked extremely unhappy. e evening had turned into a disaster. “I thought my behavior would make you happy, and instead it’s made

you sad.”

“I’m upset because you can’t love me. Okay?”

is was worse! She wanted me to love her. And I was incapable. “Don,” she said, “I don’t think we should see each other anymore.”

I got up from the table and walked back to the entrance foyer, out of sight of Rosie and the other diners. Nick was there, talking to the maître d’. He saw me and came over.

“Can I help you with anything?” “Unfortunately, there has been a disaster.”

Nick looked worried, and I elaborated. “A personal disaster. ere is no risk to other patrons. Would you prepare the bill, please?”

“We haven’t served you anything,” said Nick. He looked at me closely for a few moments. “ere’s no charge, sir. e Chablis is on us.” He offered me his hand and I shook it. “I think you gave it your best shot.”

I looked up to see Gene and Claudia arriving. ey were holding hands.

I had not seen them do this for several years.

“Don’t tell me we’re too late,” said Gene, jovially.

I nodded, then looked back into the restaurant. Rosie was walking quickly toward us.

“Don, what are you doing?” she said.

“Leaving. You said we shouldn’t see each other again.”

“Fuck,” she said, then looked at Gene and Claudia. “What are you doing here?”

“We are summoned to a ‘thank-you and celebration,’” said Gene. “Happy birthday, Don.”

He gave me a gift-wrapped package and put his arm around me in a hug. I recognized that this was probably the final step in the male-male advice protocol, indicating acceptance of the advice without damage to our friendship, and managed not to flinch but could not process the input any further. My brain was already overloaded.

“It’s your birthday?” said Rosie. “Correct.”

“I had to get Helena to look up your birth date,” said Gene, “but ‘celebration’ was a clue.”

I normally do not treat birthdays differently from other days, but it had struck me as an appropriate occasion to commence a new direction.

Claudia introduced herself to Rosie, adding, “I’m sorry, it seems we’ve come at a bad time.”

Rosie turned to Gene. “A thank-you? ank you? Shit. It wasn’t enough to set us up: you had to coach him. You had to turn him into you.”

Claudia said, quietly, “Rosie, it wasn’t Gene’s—”

Gene put a hand on Claudia’s shoulder and she stopped.

“No, it wasn’t,” he said. “Who asked him to change? Who said that he’d be perfect for her if he was different?”

Rosie was now looking very upset. All of my friends (except Dave the Baseball Fan) were fighting. is was terrible. I wanted to roll the story back to New York and make better decisions. But it was impossible. Nothing would change the fault in my brain that made me unacceptable.

Gene hadn’t stopped. “Do you have any idea what he did for you? Take a look in his office sometime.” He was presumably referring to my schedule and the large number of Rosie Project activities.

Rosie walked out of the restaurant.

Gene turned to Claudia. “Sorry I interrupted you.”

“Someone had to say it,” said Claudia. She looked at Rosie, who was already some distance down the street. “I think I coached the wrong person.”

Gene and Claudia offered me a lift home, but I did not want to continue the conversation. I started walking, then accelerated to a jog. It made sense to get home before it rained. It also made sense to exercise hard and put the restaurant behind me as quickly as possible. e new shoes were workable, but the coat and tie were uncomfortable even on a cold night. I pulled off the jacket, the item that had made me temporarily acceptable in a world to which I did not belong, and threw it in a trash can. e tie followed. On an impulse I retrieved the daphne from the jacket and carried it in my hand for the remainder of the journey. ere was rain in the air, and my face was wet as I reached the safety of my apartment.