Date night so when I got home instead of the television I went upstairs and joined her in the shower. We got ready and don’t go thinking it was this dragging our feet to the regularly scheduled date night thing. Looked forward to it. Both of us. We were always ready at the same time. Never got the bit about the guy waiting for the girl. Since prom night, my tie’s tied and her zipper’s zipped and off we go.

And don’t go thinking it’s step one get ready, step two get in the car, everything’s copy-and-pasted date night to date night, either. She reached over and grabbed my hand on the car ride over. We’re not much of a hands holding pair to begin with, let alone behind the wheel. It was different and nice. I took my eyes off the road and watched her pull my hand into her lap. She tapped the back of my hand along to the steady ba-dums of the road with her thumb. I hummed along to the radio.

The place, I admit, was always the same. Farfalla’s, meaning Butterfly’s, which I’ve asked about why and’ve never received a clear answer. We love it. Same place, not always the same dishes. I got the ravioli last week, love it there. She mentioned last night she might try it this week—the ravioli—what with my glowing reviews. She does. Get the ravioli, I mean. I say “What the hell?” and actually wind up getting the ravioli again. It was really that good.

Bread and butter came and so did the couple. The two of them were the type of people that really enter a place. Most people shuffle in, hold the door open maybe, mind their surroundings. These two entered. He was tall and lean and had a mess of curly black hair with one strand that either he placed directly across his tanned forehead just so, or it was a fabulous accident.

She was nearly his height, thin yet toned with pleasantly pale skin and blue eyes that seemed to seek out everyone in the restaurant’s gaze. While he beelined for a table—the host sprinting after him with a raised menu and still forming the first words of, “Let me see what we have,” vis-a-vis seating—her head bounced from patron to patron. The back of my wife’s head. Straight at me. So on.

My wife was recalling a memory that a painting in Farfalla’s which she’d never noticed before had knocked loose. She had been playing by the lake near her childhood home when a massive shape in the center of the water had briefly heaved upwards. She did not remember being frightened at the time, but mentioned that it was pretty terrifying in hindsight.

The ravioli came and the two of them seemed to speak at a whisper. There was the general murmur of a half-full restaurant surrounding our table, but the tall woman and the slightly taller man’s conversation didn’t seem to be a part of it. I wondered if they partially relied on reading each other’s lips, the way they seemed to be gently breathing out their words. I said something to my wife in response to a different memory that the first one about the lake had knocked loose. My wife threw her head back and laughed.

At some point each night at Farfalla’s—I’ve never clocked when—the lights dim even further than they were to begin with. It’s a classy place; every table gets a candle. As the lights shrunk, the shadows were pierced by each table’s flame encased in thick red glass.

My wife mentioned that the ravioli would have been far better if they’d used farina di grano tenero tipo 00 rather than semola di grano duro rimacinato. As I questioned her about her enjoyment of the recent cooking class she’d attended, I noticed that the couple’s candle’s flame was a soft, steady glow bathing the two in an amber glow that complemented their skin tones equally, even though he was quite dark and she, quite pale.

My wife was past her cooking class and onto current events. She often jabbed her fork as she spoke—she’d done this on our first date to a local fast food joint way back when. She’d stuck a tater tot at one point and was putting the finishing touches on a remark about someone she didn’t care for at school when she’d jabbed the fork and off the tater went, right into my root beer. It was the first time we’d jointly laughed so hard that we were unable to speak.

As my wife spoke and fork-jabbed about events currently happening, the candle at our table flickered in response. Portions of my ravioli were cast into darkness as the flame whipped one way, then another. The light fell upon my wife’s face haphazardly, making her look gaunt and feeble in one moment and picture-perfect the next.

Their candle’s flame remained still. I don’t mean just calm, but perfectly still. I actually wondered if my wife and I lucked out on a real candle and the couple got stuck with a plastic thing. But no. The flame stood perfectly upright, an occasional sway the only indication it was hot. The couple continued speaking in their hushed tones and the candle’s sole movement appeared to be one of attraction, leaning towards the woman as she chewed her lip, then the man as he ran a hand through his curls, that one stray strand snapping back into place on his forehead.

My wife touched my hand. We smiled at each other. The waiter asked if we had room for dessert. I said we did (this was new, we usually said we didn’t). My wife smiled again at me because she was just opening her mouth to say we were ready for the check. We joked that this was our way of feeling adventurous, the old geezers we were.

The restaurant went from many to one in an instant as we simultaneously turned our heads to the screech of four wooden chair legs being forced backwards. The tall woman was putting on her coat and telling the man that she didn’t care what he meant by it. The taller man stayed seated, repeating that she should sit and keep her voice down.

My wife turned back to me and raised her eyebrows with a hint of a smile at her lips. I shrugged. The tall woman with the blue eyes sat down but kept her coat on. She leaned across the table and spoke furiously to the man, who himself was now getting worked up. Their conversation had now entered the murmur which had resumed once the restaurant had simultaneously turned their heads back to their own tables.

As soon as we’d collectively gotten past it, the man said “I don’t—” a bit too loudly, though he quieted down for whatever the rest of his objection was. There was no getting past it now. The whole room had one ear tuned to the man and the woman. I wonder if the couple felt it too, the restaurant becoming one giant flame that was pushed and pulled by the undulation of their soft-spoken argument.

Dessert came and only one spoon was provided. When the waiter mentioned he would bring another, my wife joked that I wouldn’t need one because the food was all for her anyway. The three of us laughed, but the waiter still brought a second spoon over. We ate the cannoli and my wife insinuated that the dough was too puffy and had therefore retained an excessive amount of oil. I didn’t find the dish greasy, and when I said so she clarified that she still enjoyed the dish, though did maintain that it could be improved upon.

I looked up from the cannoli, believing my wife to have suddenly laughed without prompting. It was the tall woman. She was still leaned over the table, laughing at something the tall man, now smiling, had said. I put my spoon down. My wife said that that meant there was more cannoli for her. The tall woman traced a finger up and down the man’s arm, which rested on the table in between his empty plate and empty wine glass. It suddenly occurred to me that their food had not yet come.

My wife told the waiter that this time, really, we were ready for the bill. It came and was paid. The tall woman bit her lip. Didn’t chew it in thought, but bit it with a sharp smile. My wife asked if I’d heard her. 

The four legs of the chair scraped back. I looked over to see the couple standing to leave. I told my wife that I hadn’t heard her. She repeated that she was going to the restroom if I wanted to just meet her in the car. 

The tall woman ran her fingers across the man’s partially unbuttoned shirt as she walked towards the exit. The man reached under her coat and she giggled. The man tossed money on the clean table with empty plates and empty wine glasses.

My wife asked was everything okay. I told her that we should do what we’d done when we’d gotten dinner before prom. She looked confused. Then I gave her a look and she remembered. She laughed and shook her head. 

I looked back to the exit, through the clear glass door and saw the tall woman and taller man lean into each other in the parking lot.

I told my wife it’d be fun. My wife sighed and said okay. She went to the bathroom. The couple got in their car and drove away. The red lights were fading from view when my wife texted me that the bathroom was all clear. I got up and went to the women’s restroom. I passed a waiter bringing out two steaming plates of ravioli.