I pulled the door open. Augustus wore a black suit, narrow lapels, perfectly tailored, over a light blue dress shirt and a thin black tie.
A cigarette dangled from the unsmiling corner of his mouth.
“Hazel Grace,” he said, “you look gorgeous.” “I,” I said.
I kept thinking the rest of my sentence would emerge from the air passing through my vocal cords,
but nothing happened. Then finally, I said, “I feel underdressed.”
“Ah, this old thing?” he said, smiling down at me. “Augustus,” my mom said behind me, “you look extremely handsome.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” he said. He offered me his arm. I took it, glancing back to Mom. “See you by eleven,” she said.
Waiting for the number one tram on a wide street busy with traffic, I said to Augustus, “The suit you wear to funerals, I assume?”
“Actually, no,” he said. “That suit isn’t nearly this nice.”
The blue-and-white tram arrived, and Augustus handed our cards to the driver, who explained that we needed to wave them at this circular sensor.
As we walked through the crowded tram, an old man stood up to give us seats together,
and I tried to tell him to sit, but he gestured toward the seat insistently.
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