“True, but it’s still good news. This was unexpected, Cindy. Mosaic is very rare.”

My grin was real. “That’s wonderful.” My expression turned sober. “What does it say about her parents?”

“One of them could be Down’s, maybe not. We don’t know. The only thing I can tell you is that she has both white and black blood in her.” Our drinks came. “Enough of business. You know very much about me, but I know little about you. Tell me about your father and your religious stepmother and the rest of your family.”

I was momentarily taken aback. I had expected him to ask about me. Not to do so would have been rude. But I thought he’d start out with the usual: Why did I decide to become a cop? To ask about my family meant he was curious aboutme,not my profession. So I answered his question. I spoke about Rina and my father, about her influence in my father’s religious development. I segued to my mother and her current husband, Alan. Then I spoke about how I had grown up without any religious guidance, so it was a big shock when my father married my stepmother.

The service was slow. Normally, I’d be impatient, but I was yapping so much, I barely noticed. When the food finally came, I hadn’t even thought about the waiting time. The cuisine was piquant, not unlike Indian and Middle Eastern cuisine, but unique because of a sour taste from theinjera.I couldn’t say it was love at first taste, but my tongue wasn’t complaining.

“What do you think?” Koby asked after a few moments.

“It’s good.” I tore off someinjeraand used it to eat the lentils. “Something really primal about eating with your fingers. Like when you were five and playing in the sandbox, getting your hands all dirty.”

“Enjoy.”

“Thank you. You’ve hardly said a word,” I remarked. “You’re a very good listener.”

“You’re very interesting.”

“Now that is bald flattery.” I hid my face behind my water glass. “I think it’s because you’re a nurse. You’re used to listening to people.”

“Of course. And you too, no?”

“Yes, that’s true. Ninety percent of what I do is listening to people.”

“I as well.”

“Even with kids?”

He thought about that. “With the small children… The small ones don’t talk much. You make games to get them through the procedures. We have on staff several psychologists who do this. When they are too busy, the nurses do it. The little girls play with dolls, the boys… They like to hit and punch. Boys always like to hit and punch. When they are sick and angry, they really like to hit and punch. I spend a lot of time dodging punches from very angry boys.”

“It must be hard being around sick children all the time.”

He shrugged. “Sometimes. But it is rewarding. Like your job?”

“Yes.” I nodded. “Like my job.”

Koby said, “I change the subject now. The word‘gursha’means mouthful, but it’s also a tradition that we Ethiopians do.”

“What’s that?”

“We share our food. That is why everything is served on one plate. If we haveverygood time, we feed each other.”

“What?”

He placed some spiced peas atop theinjeraand made a mini-sandwich. “Minhag Hamakom.That is Hebrew for the custom of the house. You must eat from my hands. Otherwise they think you don’t like me.”

“This is for real?”

“Look around.”

I did. There was a twenty-something Ethiopian couple across from us. He wore a T-shirt and jeans and had Rastafarian curls; she had on a hot pink silk blouse and black stretch pants, and had her hair tied in a ponytail. She was indeed feeding her lunch companion with her hands.

“Okay,” I said warily. “As long as I get to feed you.”

“Of course. That is the point.”

As soon as his hands touched my mouth, I started laughing and instinctively backed away. But then I ate the proffered morsel, my tongue grazing his fingertips. I returned the gesture by feeding himinjerawrapped around collard greens. He had the grace to take the food without being sleazy about it. But it didn’t matter. Feeling his lips against my skin set off my juices. Apparently, he felt something, too.

We locked eyes. Then I looked down. I knew I was red-faced. “It’s an icebreaker, I’ll say that much.”

His eyes were still focused on me. “I have good reasons for suggesting Ethiopian.”

I wagged a finger at him.

He scooped up some cabbage. “Here. We do it again. Second time is easier.”

He could have been talking about other things.

I took the food without protest, enjoying his fingers on my mouth. Then I fed him a chunk of pumpkin. He chewed, the tip of his tongue giving a brief swipe at the corner of his mouth, his topaz eyes having dilated so they looked nearly black.

I gave him a half smile. “Is it extra to rent a room in back?”

He burst into laughter. “Eating should be stimulating.”

“Stimulating, yes, not X-rated.”

Again he laughed. We ate a few minutes in silence, letting the air around us cool off. Finally, I sat up in my chair and let out a whoosh of breath. “I think I’ve had it.”

“It was okay?”

“It was terrific. It was more than lunch, it was fun. Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome. For me too. Coffee?”

“Sure.” I paused. “You drink your own coffee, right?”

He smiled. “Yes, you drink your own coffee… unless you make your own new tradition.”

“Thank you, I think I’ve had enough adventure for one day.”

Koby signaled the waitress and ordered for us in Amharic.

“You come here often?” I asked him.

“More in the beginning when I feel a little homesick. If I miss anything now, I think I missShabbat.”

I said, “So Friday night is still on, if you want.”

“No, no, no. I didn’t mean it to be a hint.”

“It’s fine, Koby.” A pause. “I insist you come.”

He regarded my face with intensity. “I can be pushy. You feel okay about it?”

“Of course.” I was aiming for low-key confidence. “Since I know the way, I’ll pick you up.”

The waitress brought over the coffee in a small clay pot and poured it into two demitasse cups. It was stronger than espresso, but not as strong as Turkish coffee. We exchanged smiles as we drank. Awkwardness stood between us because electricity had gotten in the way of simple platonic conversation. Absently, I glanced at my watch. My eyes widened. “Oh gosh! I’m late.” I slapped my forehead. “The meter!”

He stood first and helped me with my chair. “You check the meter. I’ll pay-”

“We’ll split it.”

“No, no, I asked you out.”

I didn’t insist. “So I’ll see you on Friday, then.” I pulled out my business card, thought about giving him my phone number, but gave him my e-mail instead. As attractive as he was, I still had my reservations. I hadn’t Googled him yet or run him through the network to see if he had a sheet. “This is the best way to reach me. I’ll need your address. You do have e-mail, right?”

“Absolutely.” He took my card without disappointment, then handed me his. “My home phone, my work phone, my cell phone, and, at last, my e-mail. You can contact me however you want with the details and I’ll explain how to get to my place. It’s in the hills. I enjoyed your company very much, Cindy. Go.”

I gave him a slight wave and took off, feeling featherlight, despite a heavy gun weighing down my purse.