The restaurant on Jane Street was exactly what I'd wanted it to be. Small, warm, the kind of place that took reservations three weeks out except Roman had called ahead at six-fifteen and somehow we had the corner table by seven and I decided not to ask how.
Some things about him I'd stopped examining.
We sat down and he looked at the menu the way he looked at everything — complete attention, no performance of deliberation — and I looked at mine and felt the specific comfort of being somewhere I'd chosen, with someone I'd chosen, without anything contractual holding the shape of it.
"You've wanted to come here for a year," he said.
"Good food, right neighborhood, never the right occasion."
"What makes tonight the right occasion?"
I looked at him over my menu. "You said " we're someone
