Dinner for Two We went out to dinner just the two of us. You wore a buttoned-down shirt with a collar that framed your freshly shaven face. I, in a dress & heels, tired, shivering a bit from the cool air. How many dinners have we had like this one? The memory of them fades like a replica, a watermark in a book that wanes with each page until barely perceptible. We were happy once. Maybe we’re happy now thirteen years later. What will it be like in another decade or two? Will we still be sitting across from one another quietly searching for conversation, holding hands out of habit rather than desire.