Dating : Meet me at Milano’s

Fifteen minutes into happy hour, she saw his text as she reached for her water, already lightheaded from a drink and her second cig. “I get in around 7. Meet me at Milano’s?”

She looked over at her friend, nursing his vodka soda, on his phone. “7.30 then?”

“I’ll get you a cab, love.”

Milano’s was his neighborhood spot, where he dined almost every night with an expat crew. He summered in France with the owner, and spoiled the maitre d’s kids. She wasn’t expecting an invite this early on, but, then again, he’d already suggested a trip to his weekend home. The drive through the countryside alone would be worth it.

As the wheels began to rumble over cobblestones, she knew she was close. The sky was apricot going taupe, and she was still lightheaded.

“There she is!” He bounded from the bar, whisking her toward a Laurent, who was chatting with a coiffed septuagenarian in an impeccable Chanel suit. The restaurant opened onto the street, where she observed a very silvery Bentley. “What’ll you drink? Laurent!”

Laurent looked her up and down as she tasted the rosé. “Perfectly dry,” she smiled, and he beamed in return, and she knew that they’d be friends if she ever came back.

They moved to the patio after he downed his third Long Island. The Bentley was still there, haunches gleaming. She wanted to drive off now, immediately, away from the neighboring tables’ hollow banter, the layers of flatware, tableware, glasses, accreted before her, his Cheshire cat grin, her impulsive decision to meet. His words bounced across the table and past her fernet. The Bentley had lit up, and, purring, slid into the swaying night.