Wednesday, Which Is Enough of a Plan

The text came in just after six. Not a question, really, more of a notification. 'Tonight?' And somehow that covers it. I'd already changed out of my work clothes, which Simone has learned to treat as a soft yes.

We ended up at a place I've walked past a hundred times and never gone into, one of those bars that feels like it pre-dates every opinion anyone has ever had about this neighborhood. Brick walls. Pendant lights that do actual work. The kind of wooden table that wobbles once when you sit down and then settles into being fine. We got drinks and Simone was mid-argument about something before the first sip. I don't even remember what the argument was. I don't think it required a subject.

Simone mid-point. Elena in soft focus, definitely losing the argument.

October does this thing where the nights get cold faster than you expect them to, and you end up outside after last call not quite ready to go different directions. Simone looked down the block at something, I don't know what, she didn't say, and we stood there for a minute more than we needed to.

The part of the night where you're not quite done but the sidewalk is already happening.

I've been trying to pay attention to the moments that don't require planning to feel like something. Wednesday was that. One text, a bar I'd been walking past for years, a conversation that didn't need a subject. The prints are still leaning against the kitchen wall, in case you were wondering. Some things wait. This didn't.