“I don’t really know how to date anyone,” she tells me across the table. We stare at each other over the shitty cracked table cover and the bland food.
“You’ve been married,” I point out, spearing a wilted broccoli head. “That implies – ” I grin “- just a bit, that you’ve dated before now.”
She laughs, and it’s a delightful sound. “No, I mean, it’s like coming to this restaurant. We didn’t plan on it, it just… happened.”
“An accident,” I say, and we laugh again.
Later, when our hands slip into each other’s… that isn’t accidental at all.
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