Should the next chapter focus on a or a slow-burn romance ?
"Better than a red carnation," she said, setting the book—a weathered copy of The Age of Innocence —on the laminate table. "And more honest. Adult personals are usually full of people pretending to be the best versions of themselves. I figured if we’re meeting like this, we might as well be the real versions."
The door chimes jingled. A woman walked in, scanning the mostly empty booths. She wore a trench coat despite the mild evening and carried a vintage paperback with a cracked spine. This was "BlueInk82."
"Arthur?" she asked, sliding into the booth before he could stand up. Her voice was sandpaper and velvet.
"I posted that ad because I missed having someone to tell my bad jokes to," Clara admitted, tracing the rim of her coffee cup. "I replied because I missed hearing them," Arthur said.
He shifted in the vinyl booth, the material sticking slightly to his slacks. Across from him, the window reflected a man in his fifties who looked exactly like what he was: a recently divorced actuary who had forgotten how to talk to people without a spreadsheet.
Should the next chapter focus on a or a slow-burn romance ?
"Better than a red carnation," she said, setting the book—a weathered copy of The Age of Innocence —on the laminate table. "And more honest. Adult personals are usually full of people pretending to be the best versions of themselves. I figured if we’re meeting like this, we might as well be the real versions."
The door chimes jingled. A woman walked in, scanning the mostly empty booths. She wore a trench coat despite the mild evening and carried a vintage paperback with a cracked spine. This was "BlueInk82."
"Arthur?" she asked, sliding into the booth before he could stand up. Her voice was sandpaper and velvet.
"I posted that ad because I missed having someone to tell my bad jokes to," Clara admitted, tracing the rim of her coffee cup. "I replied because I missed hearing them," Arthur said.
He shifted in the vinyl booth, the material sticking slightly to his slacks. Across from him, the window reflected a man in his fifties who looked exactly like what he was: a recently divorced actuary who had forgotten how to talk to people without a spreadsheet.
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