The exam finished at 11:47 AM.
Marta sat in the parking lot of the licensing office and looked at the paper in her hands. Passed. Official stamp. Her photo, slightly unflattering, in the corner.
She had passed.
She texted her roommate. She texted her mother. She sat for another thirty seconds doing nothing, and then she opened her contacts and scrolled to M.
Mark — driving school was how she had saved him. Professional. Appropriate. The contact name of a person who had definitely not spent the last three weeks noticing the way he pushed his sunglasses up with one finger when the light changed.
She stared at his name for a moment.
She had decided this two weeks ago, actually. Not impulsively — she had thought about it carefully, the way she thought about design briefs, working out the logic of it. He was her instructor. She was his student. That was a real line and she respected real lines.
But she had also calculated the exact date of her exam, looked at the driving school's policy on instructor-student contact, and concluded with some satisfaction that the moment that paper was in her hands, the line no longer existed.
The paper was in her hands.
She typed: I passed. Are you busy tonight? I want to buy you corn dogs.
She looked at it. Added: As a thank you. Obviously.
Deleted obviously. It sounded defensive.
Sent it.
Then she put her phone face-down on the passenger seat — her passenger seat, her car, her license — and breathed.
His reply came four minutes later.
Congratulations. And — corn dogs?
She smiled. Typed back: There's a place onRender Street. Red sign, slightly sticky tables. Best corn dogs in the city.
A pause. Then: I'll be there at seven.
Marta looked at the licensing paper again. The unflattering photo looked back at her.
Good, she thought. Good.