‘The Newtonbrook Ninja’ by Preston Lang

Matthew started dating the ninja in January. She called herself Tammy. Cunning and athletic, she always wore black, but so did every other smart young woman on the subways of New York. On their first date, they ate ramen, and he told her about himself: originally from Canada, currently working as an independent IT consultant, afraid of snakes and turtles. She was less forthcoming about her background. Instead she ranked her favourite spices, from green cardamom down to mahlab, and she described a few simple exercises you could do to increase your grip strength. When the cheque came, Matthew accidentally knocked his water glass off the table. Tammy deftly snatched it out of the air and placed it back in front of him without spilling a drop. 

“Hey, are you a ninja or something?” he asked with a little laugh.

She changed the subject. 

Later they kissed in Union Square Park, not far from the statue of Gandhi. He found that she had almost no taste even though she’d just consumed two bowls of hoisin-drenched ramen. Matthew went back a second time, a third time, kissing her on the neck, the chin, then to the mouth again. She took a step back.

“Actually, I am a ninja,” she said. “Are you sure you want to see me again?” 

The moment of vulnerability was almost impossibly poignant. He wanted to see her every day for the rest of his life.