Photo by The Anchor.
They occupied a booth at Casey’s Root Cellar that evening. She always loved that he would slide in beside her, even though there was another chair, even though it was business. They sat close, touching, talking about the book pitches that had come through and which ones were maybes, with a little work, and which ones were sure things. He couldn’t be bothered with the ones that didn’t even make the cut, so she deleted those emails without his ever seeing or knowing.
Somewhere in the course of dinner, his hand crept to her leg, and she felt it burn beneath his fingers. And then, too soon, they were back at the office and finishing up their work, and then it was time to part ways, like it always was, when he would say he’d see her tomorrow and she would lift her face, hoping for a kiss like the one he’d done in an alley on the walk back from Casey’s. His mouth had tasted like a roast beef sandwich with a hint of a rich cabernet sauvignon, but those were only the things she would remember later.
Never in a million years would she have guessed it was the last time. For anything.
