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Because she is standing beside me under the narrow awning outside the restaurant, pulling her hair free from the collar of her coat, and I have spent the last two hours discovering several new things about her that are making my situation infinitely worse.

She makes jewelry.

She talks about her brother with the particular combination of affection and irritation I recognize immediately as an older sister.

She enjoys her work at The Spindle, which I’d never even considered because I have, allegedly, internalized the idea that everyone working anywhere must secretly be trying to escape their hellish boss.

She also listened to me explain the intricacies of seasonal candy forecasting for what had to be at least ten minutes and at most fifty without her eyes glazing over once.

And she laughs with her whole fucking face when something really gets her.

I suspected that last one, and I can confirm I like it.

The restaurant door closes behind us, cutting off the warmth and conversation from inside, and I tuck my hands into my coat pockets.

It rained while we were eating; enough that the sidewalks shine beneath the streetlights and the air has that damp, clean smell that comes after it. Water droplets hang from the bare branches above the curb, catching the light whenever the wind moves them.

Flora looks down the street. “Where did you park?”

I point to my right. “About three blocks that way.”

Her mouth pulls lightly to one side.

“What?”

“I’m parked that way.”

She points left.

I look in the direction of her car, then mine, as if the city could, magically, rearrange itself if I give it a second. Maybe a minute.

“Well.”

Flora smiles. “Well.”

This is the moment. Where one of us says, I had a good time, even though we already said that inside. Then we hug, or kiss, presumably, because we’ve definitely progressed beyond hugging. Then I walk to my car and Flora walks to hers, and I spend the entire drive home wondering how soon I’m allowed to ask her out again.

I don’t want to do any of that yet.

“Do you want to walk for a little while?”

Flora looks at me, and I resist with my whole body the urge to add anything.

This is something I’ve discovered about myself: I’m incapable of asking a question and allowing it to exist independently in the world. Normally, I would chase after it with qualifications and justifications until I’ve made whatever I asked for so small and convenient that saying no would be almost impressive.

But I asked.

So I wait.

“Yeah,” Flora says. “I’d like that.”

The relief is embarrassingly immediate.

“Okay.”

We head left, then take a right at a corner where there’s a line outside a restaurant, and I know for a fact that neither of our cars is in the direction we’re walking in now, and I suddenly like this decision even more.

For a while, we don’t say much.