The merger closed on a Thursday.
Paperwork signed, final handover completed, his firm's involvement officially concluded. A clean ending. The kind that comes with a short email chain and no ceremony.
He texted at six that evening.
Merger's done. I meant what I said still here, if you want to have dinner. No deadline on the answer.
I read it. Didn't reply that night.
Not strategy this time. Just I needed to think.
Saturday he was back in Atlanta. Not for work. He'd come back.
I knew this because he texted: In town for the weekend. No agenda. Just in town.
I said: The place in Poncey-Highland. The one with twelve seats.
He said: I'll get us in.
He did. I didn't ask how.
The restaurant was everything he'd said. Twelve seats exactly, pressed linen, one fixed menu that changed weekly
