“Please, sit,” he says, pulling out a chair for her, “and have some water.” He indicates the sweating water glass on her side of the table.
“Um, thanks.” She’s not used to someone being so solicitous. It’s unnerving. She drinks, eyeing him over the glass rim. He is familiar. Gemma puts her glass down.
“Would you like to begin with a drink?” The waitress asks, flashing a dimpled smile. “Or an appetizer?”
Gemma’s starving. She missed lunch, but when Jim looks at her, his eyebrows raised in a question, she shakes her head. “No, I won’t have room for dinner if I eat anything else.” Liar! Her mind screams, hoping no one can hear her stomach rumble. She drinks more water.
“Anything to drink besides water?” The waitress asks.
“Would you like something?” Jim asks, taking glasses from an inner pocket to read the menu.
Yes, she thinks, I’d like a Manhattan. “No,” Gemma smiles. “Water’s fine.”
“Me too,” Jim tells the waitress. “Water’s good for now.” He takes his glasses off, puts them back in their case and into his pocket.
It’s that motion of him reaching inside his coat to an inner pocket that triggers the memory.