Three weeks after I left, he asked me to dinner.
Not in the upstairs office.
Not through a scheduling note.
He called on a Tuesday and asked whether I would like to meet him on Friday.
I said yes.
We went somewhere small.
No private room.
No table waiting beneath a chandelier.
When the server brought the menus, Enzo moved his phone into his coat.
Then he asked, “How is the new job?”
I told him about the lemons.
He laughed.
A real laugh.
It made him look unexpectedly young.
“Hospitality management,” I said, “appears to involve making lists and discovering that nobody has read them.”
“I may have experience with that.”
“Keep beside me,” I reminded him.
He winced.
“I will be apologizing for those three words for some time.”
“Probably.”
He smiled.
I did too.
After dinner, we walked toward the train.
The city smelled of rain and bread from a bakery closing for the night.
At the station entrance, he stopped.
“I’d like to see you again.”
“I’d like that.”
His expression changed with relief.
Then he glanced at my mouth.
I noticed.
He noticed me noticing.
“Clara.”
“Yes?”
“May I kiss you?”
I thought about the night I first entered his office.
The dark glass.
The red dress in a photograph.
The feeling that my future depended on answering correctly.
Then I looked at the station behind me.
The train I could take.
The home I could return to.
The work I had chosen.
“Yes,” I said.
The kiss was gentle.
No audience.
No promise large enough to hide inside.
When he stepped back, I was smiling.
“What?” he asked.
“I was thinking about the meetings you canceled.”
He looked amused.
