the spark we lost

27

Tom insisted on picking me up at my apartment for our date. He was wearing a suit and his hair was combed back, away from his face. I'd worn a summer dress to work that day— it was new, yellow - and white and seersucker— and I was still wearing it, with a pair of sandals , but he seemed much dressier than I was.

He must've seen me looking at his suit, because he said " I-bankers uniform. I didn't have any time to change."

I smiled. " You look nice in a suit." As I said it, I realized he did. His shoulders were broader than his waist, and the suit was perfectly tailored to accentuate that fact.

I almost offered to change into something fancier, but before I had the chance he said, "You look nicer in that dress. In fact, I'd bet if we took a poll of completely objective humans above the niceness factor of our respective outfits, you'd win."

I couldn't help but laugh: "Niceness factor of our respective outfits?" I repeated.

"That's the technical term," he said.

He wasn't you. He absolutely wasn't you. He was older, for one thing, twenty-nine. And he was calmer, grounded. Solid, Julia called him. And he was the only one who'd been able to make me laugh since you left. That counted for a lot.

When he crooked his elbow and said, "Mademoiselle?" I linked my arm with his and closed my apartment door behind me. I was actually looking forward to dinner with him.