Max Wilcox believed in the power of change, of making the world better. Which was why he’d always worked for organizations that lobbied the government instead of the government itself. He liked his tikkun olam free of government intervention, thank you very much.

Sushi changed his mind. The best sushi he’d ever had in the District in an out of the way bistro that really shouldn’t have been open later than regular business hours. He’d crossed off the last items on his daily to do list, and arrived to discover it was still open. Small miracles and such.

The place was an undiscovered country by the time he walked in, scattered businessmen and tourists having had way too much sake and not wanting to deal with the metro, and him.

He waved to the hostess. She worked there often enough where seeing him there wasn’t a big deal. Yes, he worked for J Street; yes he was Jewish; and no he wasn’t kosher when it meant something. She didn’t even pause before giving him a menu and gesturing towards an open spot at the sushi bar.

With purpose, he walked towards the open seat, sat down on the comfortable chair, and stared at the case in front of him. That was where the smart people sitting in front of the sushi bar looked, not at the menu. And maybe if they were lucky a…

“Crab. Just in from the Chesapeake.”

The master behind the counter grinned Max’s way, knowing he’d be all in. This was why he’d come to this place even if it ever moved to Maryland, horrible drivers or high water notwithstanding.

“What about from Fulton?”

The voice was nasal, and yet slightly familiar.

He sighed, giving the sushi master a sympathetic look.

“You said the crab came from Chesapeake,” the woman went on. “What do you have that came from the Fulton Fish Market?”

He ran a hand through his hair, trying to dial down his frustration. Why anybody would come to a place in the District, demanding fish that was caught, purchased and sold in New York was beyond him. But he wasn’t going to snarl because he was tired. It wasn’t his place or his job. The last thing anybody wanted was some random Jewish dude mansplaining sushi.

But just the same, he wanted to see what this woman looked like. Maybe he was a masochist; who knew. Maybe it was because he wanted to see the person who’d had the gall to insult the restaurant’s suppliers. So he turned, slightly. Just enough to see her.

Her dark hair peeked out from under a baseball cap sporting the symbol of a hockey team he didn’t like. Olive skin, slim fingers on the counter, sunglasses perched on the counter next to long nails. A sweatshirt clean and grey, and legs that went for miles in a pair of jeans. She was trouble. She’d be trouble.

“You’re staring.”

He sighed. Drummed his fingers on the counter in front of him. “Wanted to know who needed fish from New York.”

“Don’t trust DC salmon,” she replied. “I don’t think it’s good.”

He raised an eyebrow. He’d been eating salmon in the District for a very long time, in multiple forms. At breakfasts at work and then at 6^th and I. He didn’t say it though. He didn’t think she’d listen.

“You think I’m crazy.”

He reached out to take the offered crab and put it on his plate. “I think you’re mistaken. Wrong. Not crazy.”

She smiled. And God help him, he liked the look of that smile.

“I like that,” she said. “You’re honest.”

He wondered what she was doing in this random sushi place, wondered why she was sitting there next to him on a late-night mission of personal gratification. Wondered what she looked like under the sweatshirt. And wondered who she was, why honesty was so important to her. Then he smiled back at her, before finishing his tea in one gulp.

They ate in companionable silence for the rest of the night, finishing special after special before the owner gently informed him that it was time for the restaurant to close. It had dawned on him that she was the only other person there, and for some reason the owner hadn’t given her the information, but instead he’d let Max be the messenger boy.

But this only crossed his mind only for the seconds he stood, taking out his credit card from the bottom of his wallet, removing a pen, and popping one of the tea candies they offered into his mouth.

“So,” he said. “I—”

“Next week?”

He wondered what movie she’d walked out of, or possibly a fictional moment where sushi made strange food fellows. But she had familiar, haunted eyes and a great smile. He was a sucker for all of that, and a late night adventure with a beautiful woman seemed like the kind of distraction his life needed. Even though he spent his days fighting, his nights had become a picture of complacency.

So for once, his answer wasn’t predictable. “Sure. Next week.”