Surprise.

She hated being guessed.

Every time someone said, “You look like the kind of person who…” she stopped listening before they finished.

It wasn’t that they were always wrong; sometimes they were right, and that was worse.

Being understood too quickly made her feel predictable. Predictable made her feel trapped.

“What do you want?” I asked.

“Surprise me.”

“Everyone says that.”

“I don’t mean with the drink.”

I looked at her. She was already bored with the conversation, maybe with the night or with herself. So I started making a Negroni.

She watched me reach for the Plymouth.

I like Plymouth. The higher proof gives the drink a backbone. It keeps the ice from turning it thin and the vermouth from making it too sweet.

“You have already decided what I like,” she said.

“No. I decided what the drink needs.”

“That’s almost the same thing.”

“I am not,” I said.

I thought she smiled.

“I hate Negronis,” she said.

“I know.”

“You don’t know anything about me.”

“Exactly.”

I kept stiring.

She was searching for instant newness. Something strange enough to interrupt her. Every time life began to recognize her, she would arrive with the most unexpected version of herself.

A new haircut before an unimportant meeting or a goodbye in the middle of a good week.

She didn’t want to be difficult. She just couldn’t stand the feeling of becoming expected.

I placed the glass in front of her.

She looked at it but didn’t touch it.

“So where is the surprise?” she asked.

“There isn’t one,” I said.

“That’s disappointing.”

“Maybe disappointment is the only thing you didn’t expect.”

I thought she smiled, took a sip, and immediately made a face. Some people search for surprise because they are curious. She searched for it because stillness was getting too close to knowing her.

“I told you. I hate Negronis,” she said.

“I know.”