They’d sat us at the same table.
Someone, somewhere, had looked at a chart and thought that was kind. Old friends. The people who make seating charts never know.
He had a drink in one hand and seven years on his face and the same way of listening he’d always had — chin down, eyes up, like whatever I said next was the only thing happening in the room.
“You look—” he started.
“Don’t,” I said.
“—the same,” he finished anyway.
The band found something slow. Around us the married and the nearly-so stood and reached for each other.
He didn’t ask. He stood, and held out his hand, and waited — the way he’d always waited, like he had all night, like he’d already decided how the evening ended.
I’d done my hair the way he used to like. I’d told myself I’d forgotten he liked it.
That was the second lie of the night, and the night was young.