All I can hear is us. The traffic, the city buzz dies to nothing.
“I’d like that.”
And I mean it. I want more of this. But not in our work roles as us.
Before I can think too hard about it, I step back, and he releases my waist.
“Go inside,” he says. “And wave to me from the window. What floor?”
“Second, but you don’t need to check on me.”
He chuckles under his breath. “I know I don’t, but I’d feel better knowing you’re behind a locked door.”
“Good night,” I say, looking a moment longer than I should before turning away.
As I slide my key into the lock and turn it. I don’t look back, just walk inside and close the door, leaning my forehead against it for a second. My heart thumps louder than it has in years, smiling wider than I ever remember. Alive in a way I forgot it could be. And for once, I don’t try to quieten it. I let it beat.
I retreat to my apartment and make my way to the window. His car lights are on, but he’s still parked. Waiting. Engine idling. Hands resting on the steering wheel.
He looks up, spots me in the window, and waves once. I lift my hand.
He drives off.
I watch the empty street long after he’s turned the corner out of sight.
It was only dinner.
And yet, something shifted.