One Drink, They Said

March twenty-third. The original number was one. One drink, quick, after the shift, Simone said it like a plan with an exit built in, and I agreed the same way. That was a Saturday. That was before we got the corner booth and they turned the overhead lights down a notch and the conversation found its own speed and neither of us noticed the bar thinning out until someone started stacking chairs three tables over.

I had the Tuesday yoga class on my mind when we sat down. I was going to be sensible. I was going to be home before ten-thirty with enough time to do the small domestic things I always do before bed, check on Gerald, confirm the collapsed bowl is still where I left it on the windowsill, scroll nothing in particular. Instead Simone said something in the second hour that made me put my hand flat on the table and laugh in a way I could not recover from quickly, and then she had the expression of someone who had been aiming for exactly that, and then somehow it was almost midnight.

The part where Simone said something and I genuinely couldn't recover.

I've been thinking about how the community center keeps coming up between us, I mentioned offhand that I'm still deciding whether to sign up for something new there this spring, and she asked a couple of questions I didn't have good answers to, which is usually how I find out what I actually think. No conclusions. Just the questions, sitting there.

Neither of us wanted to be the one to say it was getting late.

We walked out and the parking lot was cold in that specific March way where it doesn't feel like it should be that cold, and neither of us said anything about how long we'd stayed. Which is, I think, exactly the right amount to say about it.