The patio, strung with twinkle lights, was crowded. She wore a navy dress, with raspberry lipstick that matched the ribbon in her curls. She carried the soda bottle gingerly, the condensation dripped unevenly onto the hot pavement. She scanned across the heads of people -- the couple fighting in hushed tones by the water, the woman starting her third mojito, the chatting trios of girlfriends in clinging dresses. The sun had not quite dipped behind the city skyline, and the evening hummed with the energy of dozens of people waiting for a table.
"Lyla, party of 2," the hostess announced from her booth, in a thin voice that could not have carried past the outdoor bar.
Another frantic glance across the patio. She squinted against the spangled reflection of the sun setting in the water, looking one last time for Sarah before heading up to claim their table. The crowd parted slightly to make way for a cocktail waiter with a tray of shrimp.
And then, there he was. Standing still against the rail, looking directly at her with that gaze that always managed to be so direct, but so veiled.
In that look was the impact of thickly layered memories. There was a tingle of arms brushing shyly, walking side-by-side down a crowded walkway. There was a sigh of relief, a tightening of muscles at her touch as she nestled her head under his chin, into the curve of his shoulder. There was the lingering intimacy of millions of shared minutes. In those lips was caught a gentle kiss, soft and sure as sunshine.
Her breath jumped in a curt, painful twist through her stomach; she blinked to see if it was really him.
Across the tangle of lights, he was gone.
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