They sat near the door, as agreed. The chalkboard menu listed pastas in cursive; the clock above the bar ticked in self-important seconds. Sarah set her phone faceup between the waters: 5:30 p.m. Thirty minutes.
“Thank you for coming," Owen said. He didn't reach for her hands. He looked like a man rehearsing calm and finding only the outline.
“Talk," Sarah said.
The waiter slid over with muscle-memory charm. “Welcome back. The usual?"
Owen answered automatically. “Yes—spinach ravioli for her, extra cream; and the truffle fries; and the basil lemonade—"
“No," Sarah said.
The waiter paused, pen hovering. Owen blinked. “What?"
“I'll have the grilled chicken, no sauce," Sarah told the waiter, “and plain sparkling water with lime." She handed back the menu she hadn't opened. “Thank you."
