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After about an hour, I ordered some garlic fries to go with my beer and kept reading my grandmother’s poetry. I thought about the woman who wrote these poems and what she must have seen and experienced in life to create this vivid imagery.
So much like Emily.
As I took another bite of the fries, the door opened and in walked Emily. Her dark hair flowed down her shoulders, and she was wearing a pink halter dress. She carried her book with her as she waved at Rick.
“Your usual, Emily?” he asked.
“Yes, please.” She smiled and nodded at the bartender before turning her attention in my direction.
Her gaze latched on mine, and she slowed down.
My heart rate rose fiercely as I swallowed down my worry that she’d suddenly turn around and walk out.
But we weren’t that far gone, right?
She straightened her shoulders and kept her gaze on mine, but instead of sitting in my booth, she chose the one next to mine.
I hid a smile and shook my head, knowing the old Emily was back.
Rick brought over her drink and order of garlic fries as I turned my attention back to my book.
After about fifteen minutes of reading more poetry, I heard Emily clear her throat.
“Are you planning on sitting in that booth by yourself all night?” she chided.
“I just might,” I shot back. “I’m reading some very good poetry by a woman who goes by Grandma Edwards.”
Silence sat between us for a few seconds, and I wondered if this was my moment to stand up and join her.
Instead, she appeared at my table, and I slid the poetry book to my side.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, her eyes staying on mine.
The instant pull to her nearly consumed me as she sat across from me. Her breaths made the rising and falling of her chest nearly unbearable.
“I actually do like to read.”
“So, we have that in common now?”
I nodded. “We always did. I just let you run with your narrative.”
Her brows rose as her lips curled slightly.
“And I like staying in lately, more than I like going out,” I added.
“I kind of like going out more lately than staying in.” She drew a breath, and I forced my gaze to stay on hers.
“I’ve missed you,” I told her, and she smiled.
“I’ve missed you too.” Her eyes stayed focused on me. “But I got my project done. My agent thinks it’s got great potential.”
“You play the part of the tortured artist well.”
She chuckled. “And you?”
“Oh, I figured out my role.”
“And what’s that?”
