With only the table separating the two of them, she was sure that the pressure on her knee was his own. There were only four inches separating their hands. She felt so self conscious about the little scratch on her face.
A close acquaintance of hers might have been able to see her foot tapping underneath the table- a nervous habit, her mom says, that was probably inherited from her- or her breaths coming in and out unevenly.
Waiting for the food to come out was a nightmare; she always hated having to eat in front of other people, but especially loathed eating in front of him. She regretted saying the words, hey, why don't we go eat?
It had just been a spontaneous suggestion, one to fill a moment of silence, and she had not expected him to agree. She was surprised when he replied, sure, where?
"-and maybe we'll get to work together in the future."
She liked the sound of that.
"But, I guess, I would make fun of you all the time, so that might not work out," he continued.
They both laugh, but her laugh is quieter, because she hates the sound of her own laughter but revels in the sound of his.
She wants nothing more, at that moment, to nudge his knee a little with hers, to reach over the short distance of four inches and grab his hand, to tell him, yes, I would like that, even if you continue making fun of me incessantly.
But she doesn't, because the fact that she wishes to be a little bit bolder doesn't mean she actually is.
Instead, she allows herself to ignore the strange tugging in her chest.
Hey, this really isn't the worst way to spend a Valentine's Day evening.