He’d spent a lot of time picking the restaurant. He couldn’t forget the way her eyes gleamed the first time he took her to a nice restaurant, the way she sat down quietly, afraid to upset the stuffing in the chair, moving her silverware as if handling the delicate, hollow bones of birds. As he scrolled through the reviews, he thought about the way she had sipped her cocktail, her delight in the sparkling blend of St. Germain, Hendrick’s, Chandon Brut. He remembered when they’d brought out the small pieces of foie gras on crackers. He could see the wheels in her head churning as her eyes flicked through her silverware, unable to decide how to eat it. He thought about that incident with a small pinprick of guilt. He’d sat back and stalled by swirling his drink, watching her fumble the foie gras with a fork. Finally, after she was done chewing, he reached over and picked up the second cracker with his hand. Maybe he was trying to embarrass her. 


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