November 22, 2012

My dearest,

You are reading your online novel on your mobile phone when I pat your thigh underneath our table.

You look up and ask me, “What?”

I shake my head. My hand searches for your hand and grabs it; my right over your left. My forefinger traces letters over your palm, then releases it. And I return to my meal.

“What? What did you write?”

“Hmm? Oh, that?”

“Yes, that!”

You are so curious now. So desperate to know.

“Oh nothing much.”

“What?”

“Just … ‘Your food is getting cold. Don’t read your iPhone during dinner.’ That’s all.”

“…”

Yours, ever and always.