We walked to the bar holding hands. We weren't a couple, but neither of us let go.
I wanted to write about her. I was afraid I wouldn't do her justice, but she said it only had to make her smile.
"Do you really have to leave?" she asked.
"I think so."
"What for?"
"It's what I'm supposed to do."
"How do you expect the ones you love to stay when all you do is leave?"
I looked into my glass. "I don't."
After a while, her hand found mine beneath the table.
"Will you still think of me?" I asked.
"Probably. But not as much as you'll be thinking of me."
"What makes you so sure?"
"Hope."
We laughed. For a moment, we had the evening back.
"What if I want more?"
"That's going to take almost everything."
Everything sounded worthwhile. Still, I left.
I knew I'd come back. I had no reason to think she'd be waiting, but I think part of me expected it.
We haven't talked much since, except when something was too funny to laugh at alone.
If you read this, we're still at the table.