They sat close at dinner, occupying about a third of their booth. He apologized for the uncreative venue. She told him she did have a weakness for rooftop grilled cheese, but she would make do.

They talked and they laughed, but Pam felt removed from her own voice, like she was floating, an observer to her own discourse. Her heartbeat seemed to echo in her ears; she imagined she could feel the blood rushing through her veins and hear the air filling her lungs.

She was mesmerized by the sound of his voice, the emotions dancing across his face, his body next to hers. Her heart seemed to skip a beat every time their hands touched as they speared food from each other’s plates. Soon they were leaning toward one another, shoulders and elbows and knees brushing, heads bowed together.

Jim held a piece of his roll out for her to try. Instead of taking it from him, she lightly grasped his wrist as she leaned forward and took the piece of bread with her mouth, her lips brushing his fingertips. She stroked the inside of his wrist with her thumb, wondering how many times she had wanted to touch him like this. More than she could count.

Their eyes met. His were wide and serious. She marveled at how clearly she could read his expressions now, after a year of silence and confusion and pain. He tangled her fingers in hers, bringing her hand to his face to brush a kiss against the tops of her fingers. Her emotions felt jumbled and close to the surface. Bursting into laughter or tears or climbing into his lap and kissing him until the restaurant staff evicted them all seemed equally likely and entirely possible.

It was as they were finishing off the tiramisu, when he fumbled a piece into his lap and she laughed and he made a face, that it struck her. She wanted to be the one to kiss him this time. No, not just wanted -- the idea had suddenly become vitally important to her.