You are sitting on the wrong side of the table, angling yourself toward the door, and you keep touching the stem of the water glass because you don't know where to put your hands. You've rehearsed three stories and you will tell none of them well. Look at you.
You think tonight is a test. You think you are being measured, and that the measuring will decide something. From here I can tell you it decides almost nothing that matters, and everything that matters.
What I remember is not a single clever thing either of you said. It's the small dumb pause when you both reached for the same slice of bread, and how you laughed too hard, relieved to have something to do with your faces. That laugh. I would give a great deal to hear that particular nervous laugh again, the one you make before you've decided to trust someone.
You are so busy trying to be liked that you keep forgetting to notice how much you like sitting here. The candle. The way they mispronounced the name of the wine and didn't correct themselves. You will forget the outcome and keep the candle.
So stop checking whether you're winning. Put your phone in your pocket and leave it there. Ask the second question, the one that comes after the polite one. Order the dessert even if you're full.
And when they say something and glance up to see if you caught it, catch it.