It was a gorgeous morning in late spring. She was sitting on a bench in the park; he asked if he might join her. She nodded and returned to her book, he pretended to check his email. He watched the park, he watched the sky. He watched her: her eyes moving across and down the page, her cheeks flashing a smile when a passage amused her, her brow furrowing when it didn’t. He glanced at his watch.

“There’s a lovely wine bar a few blocks away,” he said, seemingly to himself or no one in particular.
Her head turned to him. “I’m sorry? Were you saying something to me?”

“Well, yes.” He looked a little embarrassed. “I was saying, there’s a lovely wine bar near here — I thought maybe you’d care to join me for lunch?” Idiot. This was a mistake.

She looked at him more seriously now, studying his face, looking at his hands, wondering if she should say yes: clean nails, handsome face, well dressed without being flashy or too a la mode. Comfortable in his own skin, and yet charmingly awkward.

“Yes, why not?” She smiled. He smiled back, stood and extended his hand to help her up. They strolled to the wine bar, to a table outside.

“Two glasses of the Terrasses du Larzac,” he told the server even before menus were picked up. Then he called her back: “Better make it a bottle.” He smiled at his companion, who looked puzzled and a little annoyed that he had just chosen her wine.

“A bottle?” was all she said, with just a little edge: enough to let him know.

“Trust me,” he said, and changed the subject. “What were you reading back there?” She showed him. “Agatha Christie? It’s been a while…” and he looked into the distance at a point far beyond her, remembering the first time he’d picked one up and unable to recall the last.

The wine arrived. She took a sip and looked at him as if to say, “How did you know?”

“Extraordinary, isn’t it?” he asked. She could only nod assent while she took another sip, savored it, and acknowledged to herself that she wouldn’t mind in the least if they stayed here all afternoon and drank a second bottle and maybe even a third.

They ordered lunch, an endive-and-apple slaw and a warm farro salad with asparagus and goat cheese, neither one a perfect pairing for the wine and it didn’t matter. They chatted about themselves: family and friends, and the things that mattered most. The war, the troubling headlines, and the things they would agree to disagree about. A plate of macarons arrived with their coffee. They lingered, savoring the last of the wine and wondered aloud if they should order another.

“I have a better idea,” he said, and whispered something in her ear. She flushed, more from the way his words reached inside and jangled her inner ear than from the indecency of his suggestion, and nodded quickly. She could change her mind later; she would not change her mind later. He opened his phone and tapped for a few seconds, signaled the server for the check, and whispered something far more indecent to her. She flushed again, becoming aroused and not caring that he knew exactly how he was affecting her.

He thought about hailing a taxi but decided that the walk — fifteen minutes in the balmy late afternoon sun — would do them good, and would give her a chance to back out gracefully if she wanted. They arrived at the hotel, breezed through reception and strode purposefully through the lobby happy hour, and rode the elevator to the ninth floor. He withdrew the key card from his pocket and held the door open for her.

“After you,” he said.

She had never been more eager to step through a door, knowing while she did that her life would never be the same. She hadn’t noticed until then the bakery box he had carried from the restaurant, which he now opened. He produced a plate from somewhere and emptied the macarons onto it.

“For after,” was all he would say, and then he began to slowly undress her.