“My father left us to build corn mazes in Japan,” the woman said, letting her knobby knees brush against my torn denim. Lost, as I was, in the smoothness of her legs, I was only half listening to her story, which I figured she had made up anyway.

“The Japanese do like corn,” I finally offered, willing my eyes toward her face. “They put it on everything. Pizza, salad, whatever.”

She smiled, looked away, unamused by my joke.

“I mean,” I struggled to ward off the encroaching silence, “who doesn’t like corn?” I felt like a bad stand-up comedian.

“Thanks for the drink,” she said, sliding her glass toward me. “Let’s do this again.”

She didn’t mean it.

I drove to the store and bought all 160 cans of corn that were in stock.

“Looks like someone really likes corn,” cooed the cashier with a sly grin. I smiled and invited her over.

“After my shift. It’ll be late. I hope that’s okay.”

She knocked on my door at 11 pm and the two of us worked till morning building an impressive, winding maze out of my cans of corn.

“I have to go,” she said, suddenly aware.

“Good luck,” I replied.