A woman stared silently out the window of a beaming yellow taxi, fidgeting with the hem of her short pale pink dress, her eyebrows furrowed in worry. The taxi driver toggled with the radio, murmuring when the signal would go out or ads would begin to play. After a few minutes the man reached over and turned it off, letting out a large sigh as silence filled the space. The woman was overdressed and extravagant; a slinky silk dress coated in gold jewelry, soft pink blush contrasted with her pale complexion, and high shiny stilettos. Her fingers tapped on the faux leather seat, every few minutes she would pull her phone out of her purse and open her messages, click on a chat with a man named Alex and re-read the exchange. It was a cold night in February, the streets were silent and snow blanketed the world. 

The taxi slowed to a stop in front of a plush modern restaurant, loud jazz music flooding from the concrete walls. The woman gave a rushed thank you and handed the driver two crisp 20 dollar bills, slid on her floor length double breasted coat and walked into the chilled air. A young woman stood by the door with an enormous fabricated smile, welcoming her to Lucciola. She entered the large glass doors and scanned the open space, couples laughing and sipping on expensive wine. A man in a crisp white shirt and black tie took off her coat silently and asked for her name. 

Jane, she said.

And your last, he asked with a soft smile. 

Hawkins. 

Perfect, follow me this way. 

They weaved through the restaurant, eyes staring up at Jane gliding, her jewelry smoldered under the dim candlelight. She followed the man to a hidden circular booth in a far corner of the restaurant, settled between two glassy windows. Thanking the man she took a seat in the dark leather, opened her phone messages with Alex and reloaded the page, waiting for a text to appear. Janie: a voice rang out. A tall man walked up to the booth holding a bouquet of tulips in one hand and a card in the other. Look who decided to arrive: she responded, shuffling awkwardly out of the sticky leather. They embraced each other like old friends, nostalgia and remembrance floating out of their bodies. I missed you: she said.

Don’t get sappy on me.

She rolled her eyes and sat back down.

Okay, fine, I missed you too: he said in a mocking tone. 

He watched her, her expression unreadable, he searched her face for clues and a few seconds in he seemed to give up and let out a sigh, his eyes turning to the menu. 

Can I open the card, she asked. 

No.

Why not?

Because I don’t think I could stand watching your silent judgements at my handwriting or elementary level vocabulary, he responded. 

Oh please, I would never.

Oh yes you would. 

Besides the point, I’ll read it later. She tucked the thin off-white envelope into her bag, quickly running her fingers along the paper, goosebumps trailing down her arms. Delicately placing her elbow on the table, she held her head in her hands and sighed gently, waiting for the man to initiate conversation. Her attempts were interrupted by a large Italian man dressed in all black with a thick accent, they ordered a far too expensive bottle of wine, and hinted at the fact that they would like to be left alone. They had their first glass of wine in a strange silence, rotating the conversations through the same topics; work, stress, family. After each sip Jane would place two fingers on her left temple and close her eyes, two faint lines appearing between her eyebrows. As she poured a second glass her mouth turned up in disgust. So you definitely still hate wine, he said. 

She looked up with an annoyed expression, a small smirk climbing up her lips. Yes, I still hate wine. I love being inebriated. I just wish I could get there through IV or something of the sorts. 

I hope I never have to hear you say that you love being inebriated again. That’s something we would have said at 15 while drinking your mother’s gin on Christmas Eve. He took a large sip, staring at her from the corner of his eye while she let out a soundless laugh. 

I’m not sure how else to say I love being drunk without drinking: she responded, gingerly fingering the thin glass.

Most alcoholics don’t give that information out so easily. 

I’m also not an alcoholic.

He rolled his eyes at her comment, almost as if to insinuate that he was joking. They held silence for a moment, Jane looked up at him with an indecipherable expression, he responded with a shrug and a smile. She cleared her throat for a moment and asked: how’s Anna? 

Oh, yeah, I meant to tell you: he paused, searching her face for clues.

Yes?: she asked with a confused tone. 

We’re engaged. 

For one moment a million emotions were casted onto her face, pain, grief, anger, and then as if it never happened she smiled. A forced genuine smile. 

Oh my god. Oh my god! I’m so happy for you, that’s wonderful. When? Where? Tell me everything! 

He laughed sheepishly and searched her face again, but seemed to only find joy. Well, it was in October, a few weeks after Barcleona. Well, you know, our conversation made me think, and, well, he smiled awkwardly, I just decided to go for it. I asked her at home, in the morning, just something casual and genuine. You know Anna, I think she wanted a bit more, but she was just happy I finally committed. 

I mean, it has been, what, seven years?: she responded. 

Something like that, he seemed to crawl into himself, either embarrassed or ashamed he lifted both hands up to his face and covered it. 

Oh, c’mon Alex, it was bound to happen: she said, her voice quivering ever so slightly.

I-he paused-I just couldn’t keep, um, well, I couldn’t keep waiting for you to love me. 

Tears instantly flooded into her eyes, and she began to shake slightly, from either the chill in the restaurant or the realization that he loved her. She subtly wiped her eyes and seemed to compose herself responding: I’ll always love you, um, but if you were expecting me to declare my love while you were in a serious long term relationship, I couldn’t and can’t do that. I think in some way you wanted me to make this big emotional declaration, and, well, Alex, I won’t ever beg you to leave her, or beg you to stay with me, it’s just not me.