"I'm observing the sand. Rating requires a spreadsheet and I don't have the column for ground texture yet."
"And none of them are for sand."
"Sand is not a restaurant category. Sand is an environmental variable. Different index entirely."
He laughs then turns to look at me. "You're quiet," he says, after a moment.
"I'm rating."
"You've been quiet since we got here. Not rating quiet. Quiet quiet."
"Those are the same."
"They're not. You rate things when you're happy. You catalogue things when you're not."
I reach for his hand. He takes it. His grip is firm. His thumb runs across my knuckles. I am standing in the one week a year where the closet lifts, where we can be in public together. A year of standing beside him in rooms full of people and keeping my hands at my sides. This week is supposed to be the week where we don’t have to be careful.
We go to the same restaurant as last year. Tile floors, ceiling fans, a patio facing the water. I pick the outside table because I picked the outside table last year.
"The ceviche here was an eight-one last time," I say. "I want to see if it holds."
"You remember the exact number from a year ago."
"I remember every number."
The server walks toward us.
Wes's hand opens. His fingers slide out of mine. He picks up his water glass and drinks from it. His face doesn't change. There is no flinch, no flicker, no moment where the decision crosses his expression. The hand just opens. The fingers just leave. The glass is in his grip before the server is close enough to see anything and the whole sequence is so smooth it could be choreography.
I watch the place where his hand was. The server sets the ceviche between us and asks if we need anything else and Wesanswers her and his voice is easy and warm and his hand is on the glass and I am looking at the empty space on the table.
She leaves. Wes reaches for my hand again.
"Don't," I say.
"What?"
"You let go."
"I didn't..."
"When she came to the table. You let go and picked up your water glass like you were sitting here by yourself."
He looks at me. His brow pulls together. "I didn't realize I did that."
"She walked toward us and you dropped my hand. Last year you didn't do that. Last year your hand stayed."
"Luca, nobody here knows us."
"Then why did you let go?"
He doesn't answer immediately. His jaw works. His eyes drop to the table.
"I didn't realize," he says. Quiet.
"I know you didn't. That's the problem."
"Luca..."
