“He has good taste.”
Rico approaches the table this time. “The usual dessert, Ms. Antonia?” he says smoothly.
Ben’s eyes narrow. “The usual?” I hesitate. “You eat here a lot?” Ben continues.
“Every Friday.”
He nods, but chooses not to point out my earlier deflection. “So what do you suggest for dessert then?”
“Tiramisu,” Rico and I say together, and everyone smiles, the awkward moment passing.
***
We’ve finished our coffee when his stories naturally come to an end. I’ve loved listening to tales of stray dogs and errant children. How his daughter, Rose, barely tells him where she is, but keeps a close eye on his wardrobe. Or how the boys enjoyed a summer in Chicago.
His life is so full in comparison to mine. It spills out in all directions—family, chaos, people on all sides. Mine is controlled. My grief is neatly boxed away and labeled. Hidden away in my wardrobe for only me to see. Only when I’m prepared.
We both survived loss, just differently.
The check arrives. Rico places it in the center. We both reach for it, our fingers snapping closed at the same time.
“I’ll get this,” I say firmly. “I invited you.”
He lets go. No argument. No macho speech. Just a nod and a smile.
We rise together. Ben takes my coat from Rico, who is already by our side, holding it wide so I can slide each arm in easily. Then he bends and passes me my handbag, forgotten beneath the table.
As we reach the door, Ben pushes it open. I step through, his hand soft on the base of my back, steady and secure. Outside, the winter air bites my cheeks, and icy breath floats in the sky.
“So, how local is local?” he asks. “Can I walk you home? Or did you drive?”
I look over the street to my apartment block. The lights are still on in my home, two floors up. He follows my gaze and chuckles.
“Shall I walk you home then, ma’am?”
He offers me his arm, and I find myself taking it. We walk the fifty meters to my front door in silence. The air charged, neither of us debating whether this is a date anymore. It was a date. The energy between us confirmed it.
“Thank you for seeing me home, sir,” I say.
He steps in front, so we’re face-to-face, my back to the door.
“I have to say I’m disappointed,” he says. I blink, confused. “You didn’t wear your wellies.”
I shake my head. The heat of the evening is taking hold. The wine. The charm. All the joy I’ve not experienced in forever rushes to the surface. Tonight was fun.
I consider inviting him upstairs for a drink. I could. The apartment is tidy. It always is. And I made sure earlier. But it’s late. And is coffee an invitation for more? So I don’t, and he doesn’t suggest more either.
If he sees my space, he sees me. I can’t pretend that this is nothing.
“It’s late,” he whispers. “I should go.”
“Yeah…”
Strong hands settle at my waist. I step toward him, and his lips touch my cheek. For a longer time than when he first greeted me, but just as gentle.
I tilt my head slightly, our noses brushing briefly. He closes his eyes. I rise a little, pressing my lips gently on his. It feelslike something I’ve been holding back from for far too long. Like something I’ve needed but refused to let myself have.
“Can we do this again?” he says so quietly, I can barely hear him.