He notices the dark red lipstick on the rim of the glass, displaying a half-moon smudge. For an instant, his vision moves beyond the glass and settles on the inner lapel of the jacket she’s wearing, comparing its brighter red to that of the lipstick.  

She turns her bare slender fingers, the index and middle one, around the stem of the glass, slowly rotating it. The movement, a subtle one, magnetizes his attention to her fingernail polish: a caramelized burgundy.

She releases the stem, retracting her fingers, the outside of her hand grazing the edge of the table as her hand withdraws. The table is covered by a white linen tablecloth. There is a votive candle, unlit, inside of a crystal fixture, which has textured grooves cut vertically into its design. Her hand is placed palm down at almost exactly the midway point between the candle and the glass. She inverts the fingers on her other hand, slightly, as she raises her hand to mouth and clears her throat, hiccupping a cough.

He scratches the underside of his chin, using the edge of his thumbnail. She notices the kernels of fresh stubble darkening his chin. When he rests his hands, he folds them neatly, directly in front of where his abdomen and the table meet, then quickly disengages one hand from the other and coughs dryly into a cupped palm.

The waiter comes over. She acknowledges the waiter with a smile. He acknowledges the waiter with a slight nod. The waiter asks them if they are ready to order.

He scans her eyes to see if she’s planning to respond, and her eyes briefly meets his, then her gaze skittishly jumps to a different sight, that of a busboy carefully arranging silverware on a table, before she returns to the waiter and says—No, I won’t be staying.