The two glasses in front of me bead with condensation, and it feels like a much too obvious metaphor, as I brush a fresh layer of sweat from my forehead. I’m not particularly warm, but I tend to sweat when I’m nervous. Which begs the question, why am I nervous?

After all, this is just a dinner. Even if it is with Clara, we both know the state of things. There is nothing on the line here. Absolutely not. Maybe I’m nervous because she’s running late. I might deserve to get stood up, but that seems out of character for her.

I take a nervous sip of my water, and a waiter refills it the moment I set it back down. He asks me if I would like to order a drink, but I refuse. Even though it would help me relax, I tell him no. My refusal might have been a little to forceful. I see the puzzled look on his face right before he walks away.

I never saw her enter the restaurant. All of a sudden she was at the table. Her sudden appearance snapped my brain into the present, as I felt jerked through several layers of overthinking. She smiles, and water spills as I stand to quickly to greet her. The hug is brief, but long enough for me to smell her perfume that she hasn’t changed since we first met.

“Well, isn’t this quite an upgrade.” She gestures at the cavernous restaurant.

“No question.” This was where every adult in our town went for a big occasion. The tables were covered in cloth, and the waiters were dressed smartly. I had no idea if the food was any good, but it seemed like a logical choice. We had never had the money to come to a place like this when we were together.

We both reached for our glass at the same time, synchronized laughs into uncomfortable swallows. Only two nights before, there had been so much to talk about. Although, when I try to remember it, there appears to be a clouded lens over the night. I must have had too much to drink.

The waiter returns, and Clara orders a glass of red wine. He is beginning to walk away when I stop him to ask for the same. I think I see him roll his eyes, but that could have been my imagination.

We both studied the menu, pointing out what looked good, looking up over the top at each other like skittish creatures looking up briefly before quickly retreating. The waiter came back with our wine, and took our order.

Clara drank half of her glass before she set it down, looking me directly in the eye. “Okay, enough awkward foreplay. Why are we here?”

“What do you mean? I thought we were going to catch up.”

She shook her head, her eyes never leaving mine. “That’s what we did on our walk. Don’t get me wrong, it was nice, and I was glad to see you. But there had to be intention behind dinner.”

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

What she said made sense. We had already caught up. That cloudy film over our last conversation refused to clear as I continued to try and recall it in my head. Why had I asked her to come here tonight? I could only remember that I wanted to see her again. Before I could think of something else, I heard the words tumbling from my mouth.

She leaned back in her chair, and smiled at me, and once again I was overwhelmed by her. She had a way of looking at me that made me feel like I was suddenly naked. Everything was stripped away, and I was left at open and vulnerable.

“I wanted to see you too. Not that I’ve forgiven you, but I do miss you sometimes. And I suppose I could have acted better as well.”

That was the emotion I had been feeling, though I refused to name it. Wasn’t it easier to just admit that I thought of her from time to time? It was so much worse to label it as a problem, especially when there was no easy solution to it.

Our waiter brought out our dinner, and we were able to fall back into old patterns of being with each other. It was fun, and easy. Two words that I rarely describe social interactions. That thought should have made me introspective and depressed, but Clara kept me in the present like she did before.

We both ordered espressos and opted to share a slice of chocolate cake. Clara lifted the small cup by the ridiculously small handle and knocked the whole thing back.

I laughed at her. “You have to savor these things.” I took a small sip, and placed the cup back onto its matching saucer.

She rolled her eyes, and then plunged her fork into the cake, removing the layer that had most of the frosting. “See what happens when you don’t waste your time savoring.” She chewed the cake thoughtfully, then placed her fork down on the plate. She reached her hand across the table and placed it on mine.

We had continued to sip wine throughout the evening, and I could feel that warm blanket of booze pulled over my entire being. Clara’s hand on mine felt natural, like that was where it should always be. It should never have left.

“So, you wanted to see me. Now what is it that you want?” Her question felt like a bright flood light that caught me sneaking around in the dark. I froze, and she must have felt it. “I didn’t mean to freak you out, or put you on the spot. But I feel like we’re older now. Maybe it was fated for us to meet.” She looked down, and I could see that she was blushing.

“What do you mean?” I want to jump into traffic the moment I say it. It’s all I’m able to get out.

“You’re really going to make me say it? Ok, well, what if we tried this again?”

The question hung in the air like a thick storm cloud, the atmosphere suddenly atomized and bristling with electricity. I wanted to say yes. With every fiber of my being, I knew that was what I wanted. Yet, I shook my head. “I care about you Clara, I mean, more than you—”

She pulled her hand back, and I stopped talking. “It’s fine, I’m sorry I got caught up in the moment.” She excused herself hurriedly, walking quickly toward the bathroom. I called for the check, paid, and slipped out before she came back. It was hardly the worst thing I had done to her, though I still felt awful doing it. At the same time, I didn’t think I deserved to see her again.

When I walked out of the restaurant, it had begun to rain. It seemed a fitting punishment. I lifted up my collar, and made my way back home.