I'm a sieve to her comment, which passes through me as I am only interested in finding out how they communicated, "eh, Gina, how did you know what he wanted?"

A deadpan stare appears on Gina's face as if to say he told me silly. I keep my mouth shut to avoid sterile conversations, which would lead to nothing.

My grumbling stomach alerts me; hunger knocks, I hurry off for lunch. Like a kid, I wait for the lights to switch from red to green though there isn't a car. Yep, safety paranoia has that grip over me. I cross the street from the department store. Bombay Express is an Indian restaurant I like; they serve the best biryanis I've ever tasted; I go there once a week.

I occupy my usual spot and let my gaze roam on the decor. The place isn't as crowded as usual some people are boycotting it since they found out the owner gave the vegetable leftovers to bats.

Suddenly the entrance door opens and in comes guess who? Søren.

What is this?

Until yesterday, he didn't exist. Now the guy seems to be a cameo in every scene of my existence.

Søren doesn't sit far from me. I try to hide behind the menu and give up.

It's a coincidence. Come on, Inna, get over it.

My order arrives, and I'm unable to relish the meal. Søren's eyes don't spare me one bit.

The waiter brings his dishes, and I can't help but notice the number of times Søren adds salt. I swear the man must be tasting of the Red sea by now, never mind his eating habits. I'm out of here, "excuse me, can I have a doggy bag, please."

Attempting to retain my burps and imploding gases as the food stays on my stomach is all I do during the afternoon. It's with a lot of relief that I hit my bed and release the remaining bottom burps after a good and hot shower when I get home.

Okay, Inna, forget today. Tomorrow will be better.

Am I punk'd?

After yesterday's Bombay Express fiasco, I choose Monet's salads bar. They serve everything at the counter, and who is sitting across from me?

"Eh, excuse me, can I have a takeaway, please?"

It's not that I'm running away, but this man's gaze upon me makes me nervous.

Why does he keep showing up?

Aurora is kept in the dark about my encounters with him; I don't want her to misinterpret my intentions and think I am stepping on her turf.

Perhaps I'm paying too much attention to Søren. Come on, Inna, get your shit together.

The week goes on in the same manner, without forgetting Aurora, who keeps reminding me about how the man's sex appeal soars with his silence and how she plans to go to Oblivion tattoos for another tattoo even if it's far.

A part of me would love to say, well, he's closer than you think as I cross him at Blooming Tales bookstore and here at Hubble's milkshake bar.

The place is jam-packed to top things off, and the only seat available is at his table.

Since Søren ruined my week, I'm in a mode for a clash. Ten steps later, I stand in front of him, "ahem," he lifts his head from his ice cream, "eh, there's no more seats, can Iㅡ."

Søren gestures with his hand for me to sit.

Honestly, I'm not the confrontation type, but I need to be sure. Unlike the other days, Søren's eyes focus on his dessert, which he keeps adding honey syrup to like a devil. My eyes dart to scope if there's anyone else ready to pass out at the sight of the overflow of sugar on his ice cream.

No blinking eyes or gaping mouths. What is this?

Then again, people just mind their own business, unlike me. And I need to clear up mine, "eh, Søren, are you stalking me?"

Søren coughs and bangs his fist on his chest before giving me a stare that makes me slide back on my chair.

The man's eyebrows knot together, and I almost pat myself on the shoulder. It's the first ordinary reaction he has since I met him. Now he seems very embarrassed, and suddenly I'm not so proud.

"Eh, sorry, it's just I've never noticed you around, I go to your parlor, and bam, you're everywhere, so what's the deal?"

Yes, I'm blunt, but I hate beating around bushes or trimming them.

Søren stares intensely at me, and I remember he can't speak.

How can he make so many people smile without uttering a single word?

Younger, I dreamt of communicating with everyone globally. I realized there's a category of people I could never share with words even if I knew all the languages possible.

So I learned sign language, I haven't used it in years, but here it goes.

"I'm sorry, it was rude of me," I say, accompanying my words with what I think are the appropriate signs.

For a second, I wonder if I got it right as Søren doesn't budge, but his gaze softens. My cheeks rise; never a man has looked at me the way he does now.

He opens his mouth, and my breath hitches as I realize he's going to speak.

His lips move, but what comes out is a non-audible sound, which after two attempts, almost becomes comprehensible words as he too signs back to me.

"It's ˌəʊˈkeɪ ."

"It's okay," I repeat, "what's okay?"

Inna, dumbass, can't you see the man is struggling already.

I'm not offended, Søren signs.

Phew, safe, I think, as I place my hand on my heart.

Right now, one can hashtag me, idiot, perhaps Søren happens to appreciate the same spots as I do, and I just made a total fool of myself assuming he stalked me.

As if he could have any interest in me? Lorenzo turned me into a psycho.

"You know what, Søren, let's forget what I just said; I'm Inna. A weird chick who has a habit of saying whatever absurdity pops into mind. I understand if you think I'm crazy because I am."

Søren shakes his head in disapproval, yo'r-no- \ ˈkrā-zē \ he says as he signs. In the end, he gives me a timid smile.

I'm ashamed of my lack of tolerance and how I kept seeking to know how he communicates.

I'm sorry if my presence is a nuisance to you, he explains with his hands.

"No, I'm the one who's sorry. Thanks to my parents, I see evil lurking everywhere," I reply as I place both indexes at the side of my head to indicate devil horns.

A sigh escapes as I reflect; it's true though my parents made me a freak with their you'll never know who people are, beware of the wolf in sheep's clothing, and the world is not what it seems.

I sip on my milkshake, and Søren resumes eating his ice cream, to which he adds honey till the very last spoon. As I look at Søren, I see no evil, and as far as the wolf goes, he must be the cutie of the pack.

"Gosh, time sure does fly."

I get up, and so does Søren, who watches me sling my bag on my shoulder.

"Are you leaving?"

He shakes his head. Then, I understand that it's an old fashion etiquette. I smile, "see you around, Søren."

He waves bye to me.

There you go, Inna, see, he's not a bad guy; there's no mystic. Not all men deserve to burn on a stake. Aurora seems to have picked herself a good one this time.