They hadn't seen each other in a month. She was across the restaurant from him, and they had not done anything — they had ordered and been talking normally about work. Twice now she had held his eye a beat longer than conversation required, and the second time she'd done it slowly, with the edge of a smile. His plate had been cleared. The waiter had offered dessert and she had declined without taking her eyes off him. He was aware of the specific feel of his own shirt on his back, the heat of the room, his pulse in his throat. They were maybe eleven minutes from the front door of his apartment. Neither of them had said anything about it. Both of them knew.
