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“Red wine, please,” she says.
I ask the bartender to recommend a decent Merlot and order two glasses, and we take them to a table in the corner. Alice takes off her coat, then slides onto the cushioned bench seat, while I take the chair opposite her.
The lights are low, and a candle flame dances in a jar on the table. It’s warmish in here, and Alice’s pale skin bears a slight flush.
She puts her purse on the edge of the table. From the zip hangs a keyring with a few charms—a red heart, an open book, and a pink bird. I pick it up and turn it in my fingers with a smile.
“I like flamingos,” she says. After delving her hand into her coat pocket, she brings out a tiny box and places it on the table. “Got you a birthday present.”
My eyebrows rise. “Seriously?”
“It’s only something small. It doesn’t mean we’re engaged or anything.”
I point at her. “That’s fromAliens.”
She laughs and pushes the box over to me. “I love that you know that. Go on, open it.”
I take the box. The lid closes like a flower, and I unfurl the petals. It contains a single chocolate truffle. I smile and take it out.
“Happy birthday,” she says.
“Thank you.” I bite it, dividing it in two, and offer her the other half.
She looks at it for a moment. “I bought it for you.”
“And I’m choosing to share it.” I gesture for her to take it, and she does, popping it in her mouth.
“Off down the rabbit hole,” she says.
I don’t quite get the reference, but I smile anyway, because she’s quirky, and I like that. She also has an amazing voice. When we first met, I was sure I recognized it, but I can’t think where from.
We eat the truffle, which is rich and dark, then have a sip of wine.
“Thank you,” I say, genuinely touched that she bothered.
She wrinkles her nose. “Least I could do after you paid for dinner.”
“Like I said, I’m old fashioned.”
She smiles. “So come on then, tell me.AlienorAliens?”
“Oh, good question. They’re both superb. Different kinds of movies, right?”
We talk for a while about movies and TV series, while Dean Martin works through his Christmas repertoire. A couple more people come into the bar, but they sit further down, and it remains quiet where we are.
When we finish our wine, I ask her whether she’d like something a bit stronger, and she asks for a G&T. I order a whisky, and we sip those while we talk more about the kind of TV we like to watch, the books we enjoy reading, and the music we listen to.
I’m feeling nicely mellow by now, relaxed and comfortable, enjoying the company of this beautiful, intelligent girl who seems into me. Eventually, though, there’s a lapse in the conversation, and I take the opportunity to smile at her. To my surprise, she drops her gaze, and I’m sure I see her blow out a shaky breath.
“Don’t be nervous,” I say.
“What makes you think I’m nervous?”
“The fact that your knee is bouncing under the table.”
She stills her leg and gives an embarrassed laugh. “Sorry.”
“What are you nervous about?” I ask, amused.
