Work Text:
Columbina: I’m excited to see you :)
Sandrone gets this text while screaming into her phone in her bathroom.
“I placed that reservation earlier this week! I have email confirmation. Text confirmation! I have proof that I placed it!” The phone lay on the counter, speaker on. “It should not be ambiguous. 6:30 under Sandrone Guillotin.”
She waves the curler in her hand like it’s a blunt weapon, and her opponent is her own reflection in the mirror. And her opponent is equally as livid as she is. She has rage written all over her face, blue eyes burning and a crease forming between her brows.
But then she sees that her face is actually turning a little bit red from all the yelling, so she calms herself down by reading Columbina’s text for the fourth time. She curls another lock of hair quietly. Her reflection does the same, equally unimpressed with the situation.
“Ms. Guillotin, I’m sorry, but we don’t have your name on the list,” the staff member repeats back to her, sounding somewhat apprehensive.
She almost throws the curler into the wall. “How?! How is that even—”
Her phone buzzes. Blue eyes flick downward to the screen. She sees three dots moving from Columbina’s texts. Watches them bounce around for a second.
“... One moment,” she says sharply into the phone. Scrambling, she places the curler on the vanity and grabs her phone to type out a message. She types quickly.
Sandrone: The restaurant seems to have misplaced our reservation.
The three dots go away for a brief moment while Columbina reads her text. Then:
Columbina: If it doesn’t work out, we can always go somewhere else.
She stares at the message. The reflection in the mirror does the same. For a moment, neither Sandrone nor her reflection moves.
A stone drops into Sandrone’s stomach. She reads the text again. We can always go somewhere else.
The words settle incorrectly. No, no. That is not the response she is looking for. She’s adjusting expectations, she thinks. Preemptively.
That’s very bad.
“Ms. Guillotin, we can put you on the waitlist, if you’d like—”
“No. Listen,” Sandrone snaps. “Make a new reservation. I don’t care. Party of two for Sandrone Guillotin. 6:30 P.M.” She rats off the information that is literally in her email as written proof.
“But we—”
Sandrone cuts the staff member off. “Do you, or do you not have an open table?”
“We do, but that’s—”
“Then put my name down!” she yells.
She meets her own eyes in the mirror again. She sees the explosive rage. She closes her eyes for a second.
“Thank you,” she appends before ending the call.
For a moment, she doesn’t move. Because her mind is thinking about everything and nothing at the same time.
A date with Columbina Hyposelenia. She can barely comprehend it.
She starts fluffing up her hair, making sure not to disturb the bun that she’s styled.
She wonders if Columbina is doing what she’s doing right now. Or what her make-up routine looks like. She can visualize her holding up her different silvers to her neck, her ears, her hair, in front of the mirror, trying to figure out which one she should wear for the day.
A date with Columbina. She pulls her fingers out of her hair to pinch herself briefly.
Her hair falls flatter than she cares for. She tries to fluff it up again. It falls flat again.
She leans in toward the mirror. Her reflection narrows her eyes slightly. Tilts her head. Lifts a section near the crown, letting it fall again.
Beige heir falls flat around her face.
Clicking her tongue, she grabs her can of dry shampoo and begins to shake it.
Only to get reminded that she’d left it empty last time specifically because she needed to go buy more. And she forgot again.
She shakes it anyway. Presses the button. A hollow hiss answers her.
She pauses for a second. Presses again. Nothing.
She stares at the bottle.
Dammit. She makes a mental note to get more. Whatever. She sets it back down in exactly the same spot.
She still exits her apartment feeling mostly confident in her appearance. She’d chosen a flattering black-and-white dress with golden accents. She’d worn it before for special occasions, and she loves how it looks and feels. A perfect combination.
And though her heels aren’t exactly the most practical, they fit perfectly with her dress. Besides, she’s not planning on running a marathon in them.
The car door shuts with a contained sound. She exhales as she settles into the seat, placing her bag into the passenger side and her phone into the console.
Before starting the engine, she glances up. The rearview mirror catches her immediately. For a moment, everything stills. She reaches up, lightly combing her fingers through the top of her hair, lifting, testing.
Still flat.
Her lips press into a thin line.
She adjusts the mirror once and pulls into the flow of traffic, the city waiting ahead.
For a while, she doesn’t register anything beyond the steady forward motion. The hum of the engine, the rhythm of stoplights turning in sequence, the lanes and the signals.
Her thoughts, though, refuse to follow the same order of events on the road.
Columbina Hyposelenia.
The name surfaces again, unprompted. Because it feels like honey on her tongue when she tastes the name again. It’s still somewhat absurd to her. It’s probably the reason why she feels like she hadn’t been able to sleep the past two nights.
It’s not improbable. Their circles overlap. They’d spoken in the past, on multiple occasions. Somewhat substantial conversations.
And yet.
Her grip on the wheel tightens slightly. She flicks her gaze briefly to the rearview mirror.
Her hair—
She exhales slowly.
She considers all of the components of the experience. Presentation may be one of them, but there are more. The location, the timing, the conversations—all important. This is fine.
The car slows gradually.
She doesn’t notice it immediately. But when she does—when she looks up at the line of cars ahead of her, it stretches farther than it should.
Her vision becomes filled with brake lights.
Her brows draw together, just slightly.
“... No,” she murmurs.
Eyes move to the dashboard. Right on cue, the GPS chimes.
Traffic ahead. Delay added to your route.
The updated arrival time shifts upward. Two minutes. Five minutes.
Sandrone stares at it. Her grip tightens until her knuckles pale.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she says quietly.
The cars ahead remain unmoved. Uncooperative.
She exhales slowly through her nose, eyes narrowing at the road as if it’s personally failing her.
It takes more time than expected, but she makes it to the parking garage eventually. The one with a good parking rate that she’s become familiar with. The one that she’d specifically chosen because of its proximity to other locations in the city.
She turns in without hesitation. The spiral ramp curves upward.
She turns the corner. The ramp continues upward.
Twice. Three times.
Another turn. It’s still full.
Her jaw sets.
The hum of the engine echoes faintly off concrete as she continues upward, each level passing with the same pattern. Rows of occupied spaces.
She takes another loop. A spot appears, but it’s too tight. She passes it.
By the time she finds an open space, it’s higher than intended by a good margin.
Her phone is already in her hand by the time she kills the engine.
Sandrone: Running a bit late.
She steps out of the car, closing the door with more force than necessary. The echo is sharp against the concrete walls. Adjusting her bag, she straightens and moves toward the stairwell with haste.
Her heels strike against the concrete—the steps—in a quick rhythm. She keeps one hand barely grazing the railing for balance as she descends.
Her foot hits the next step at an incorrect angle. The world tilts.
Immediately, a sharp jolt of pain shoots up her ankle and into her leg. Sandrone stumbles but catches herself hard against the railing before she falls completely.
“... Damn it,” she snaps. The echo of her voice comes back to her like a mimic.
She freezes for a second, catching her breath, waiting for her heart rate to return back to reasonable numbers.
The pain pulses.
She grits her teeth. Not what I needed. Not the adrenaline rush that she’d been anticipating for the day.
She straightens slowly, testing her weight.
With a dark gaze, she drops her gaze briefly to the offending heel. Exhales, long and controlled, forcing herself out of irritation.
“This is fine,” she tells herself out loud.
She adjusts her stance and shifts her weight carefully before continuing down the stairs.
Slower, despite the urgency. But regardless of how calm she’s attempting to feel, the tension in her shoulders and her thighs does not disappear.
By the time she reaches street level, she’s a little bit out of breath from the number of flights of stairs. The city greets her with movement, noise, and light from all directions.
It hits Sandrone in one breath: a dense cloud of stimulation.
The pedestrian walkway ahead is completely packed, with people crowding around each other in steady currents. Bright storefronts and signage accompany the hum of traffic around the corner.
She tells herself that she does not hate this. Not this early in the evening.
She slips into the flow of people automatically, adjusting her pace accordingly. She’s fully aware of the nearest people and their distance and makes sure to minimize contact. And with every other step that she takes, her ankle protests; a dull reminder that she's agonizingly trying to ignore.
She reaches for her phone briefly to check the time. A single glance down at her screen.
A black screen greets her.
She keeps her eyes ahead, mapping a patch through the crowd. Hits the power button—maybe her fingerprint unlock isn’t working because of the moisture.
Her phone doesn’t turn on.
Seriously? She glances at the side of the phone to make sure that she’s hitting the power button and not one of the volume ones.
“Are you fucking kidding me,” she says out loud.
She almost collides with someone from her distraction, barely stepping out of the way at the last second. Frustrated, she puts her phone away.
Dead battery. Just what I needed.
And, a second later, she remembers that she has a back-up battery pack.
And, the next second later, she remembers that she’d left it in the car.
Her jaw tightens—
“Mary-Ann?”
The voice cuts through the noise out of familiarity. She slows down to a stop, turning her head.
A familiar older man, well-dressed, stands a few feet from her, one hand lifted in mild surprise. Already stepping closer.
Of course.
Now.
Sandrone straightens slightly and transforms her expression into something polite and respectful.
“Seymour,” she says, inclining her head. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”
“It’s been a while,” he replies easily. “How have you been?”
If it were literally any other person, she would have completely ignored them. If it were anyone else, she would have simply pretended that they don’t exist, or that she doesn’t know them.
But Seymour… and his long friendship with her father…
She puts on a smile to show him that she is not a prickly person, and she is not rude and unkind to everyone. “I’ve been well. It’s great to see you.”
He steps closer. “And your work? Still keeping you busy as always.”
“Yes,” she says automatically.
She shifts her weight subtly, angling her body just slightly away.
“Good, excellent,” Seymour says. He glances around briefly, then back at her. “You’re out this way for something specific?”
Sandrone opens her mouth to respond—
Pauses for a second.
She can’t just say, “I have a date,” even if it’s suggested by her choice of attire. Because she can already imagine the follow-up questions that are sure to come after opening up that conversation.
“A date? With whom? Tell me about her. How did you meet? Do you like her?”
She closes her mouth and adjusts her grip on her bag. That is not a 2 second conversation to be had.
“Yes,” is all she says, keeping it vague. “I have places to be.”
Seymour—bless his heart—does not pick up the cue. “It’s nice to see you taking some time away from work occasionally. Important to maintain the balance.”
She takes a small step backward. “Of course.”
Unbothered, he continues on. “You always did have a tendency to overcommit. I remember—”
“Y-yes, I know,” she cuts in, meeting his gaze apologetically. “I really do have to go.”
There’s a brief pause before he blinks and smiles again. “Of course.”
Sandrone takes another step back. She gives one polite nod. “I’ll keep in touch.”
“I’ll hold you to it, Mary-Ann,” he says.
And she turns and escapes before either one of them can continue the conversation with any sort of closure.
Mary-Ann. There aren’t a lot of people left in this world who call her by that name.
She shakes off the conversation and rushes back into the throng of people. The city stretches on in its bright colors and busy foot traffic.
She makes it to the restaurant after picking up momentum, finding haste in her feet and measured steps, ignoring the dull throb in her ankle.
A small cluster of people gather near the restaurant entrance. The murmur of waiting conversations spill out onto the walkway.
Sandrone slows and straightens her posture. Mentally, she takes a quick final inventory of her appearance, timing, composure, before her gaze lifts to search for—
Columbina.
She’s standing off to the side of the entrance, waving quietly at her, as if she’d been waiting and watching for her.
The instant that Sandrone’s gaze falls upon Columbina, she loses track of whatever thought or process that had been going through her mind in preparation. Because Columbina is a vision, and all other noise, movement, city, disappears for a second.
She looks… there are no words to describe her.
Sandrone blinks. Reality check.
She steps closer with controlled steps.
“Hi,” Columbina greets with a bright expression once they’re close enough to each other. Conversational distance. About one meter away.
“Hey,” Sandrone says, and for some reason she’s a little bit out of breath. She doesn’t know why. She clears her throat to hopefully alleviate that.
Sandrone becomes acutely aware of several things at once. The ache in her ankle. The lack of volume in her hair. The very slight off-white hue on her dress that is only noticeable under very specific lighting. Her breathing.
And Columbina’s pink, pearl-like eyes on her.
“Did you get my text?” she asks, tilting her head slightly.
Sandrone hesitates. “No,” she says. “My phone died.”
The raven-haired woman blinks. Then laughs lightly. “That would explain it.”
She narrows her gaze slightly.
“I got here a little early,” Columbina continues, gesturing vaguely to the restaurant. “I figured maybe I’d check in for us. But they said that they would only hold the reservation for five minutes unless we had the whole party here.”
She pauses, and Sandrone doesn’t say anything at that moment.
“They’re quite firm about it.”
Sandrone’s arms twitch at her sides, but otherwise she remains still as a statue. She doesn’t move an inch.
“So,” Columbina finishes, shrugging slightly with one shoulder, “I think we’re out of luck with this one.”
Silence.
The world narrows into something very small and without noise. And Sandrone, in the middle of it, stands perfectly still.
Reservation lost.
Failure.
She feels a structured apology forming on her tongue already. Her mouth opens slightly. “I—”
But before she can begin to speak her half-formed thought, Columbina suddenly steps into her space and slips a hand through Sandrone’s arm, linking them together with an easy familiarity.
“C’mon, Sandrone,” she says, already turning. “I’m starving.”
Sandrone blinks. “... What,” she says, quieter than intended.
“That place,” Columbina says, pointing to a restaurant she’d never heard of across the street, “looks nice. I’ve been eyeing it.”
Whatever sentence Sandrone had been constructing dissolves instantly. Because Columbina moves them along, guiding them across the street like nothing of consequence had happened.
She glances sideways. Columbina doesn’t look concerned in the slightest. Nor disappointed. If anything, it’s that Columbina-classic pleased look.
She chooses not to be confused.
Columbina’s choice of restaurant is acceptable.
It’s not what Sandrone had planned, but it’s clean, warm, and busy, both with patrons and staff. The lighting is softer than Sandrone expected.
They’re seated quickly. She gives them one single point.
Columbina rests one arm on the table while her gaze drifts over the menu for all of five seconds before she places it back down.
“I’ve already decided,” she says.
Sandrone concludes that Columbina ordered the first thing that she saw on the menu.
She selects something balanced and unlikely to create disaster, unlikely to go wrong, and something with a minimal margin of error.
She tells herself that this is probably what would have happened in her original plans, regardless.
After they get their food, the conversation flows… in fragments. It’s not particularly awkward, but maybe it’s somewhat clunky.
At least, that’s what Sandrone is feeling. But based on how Columbina’s seated across from her, she’s the only one thinking these things. She watches Sandrone through the conversation, providing a quiet attentiveness that makes something in Sandrone’s chest tighten slightly.
She shifts in her seat. Her ankle protests.
Without changing her expression, she moves a hand to press lightly against the sore spot, massing it in small motions.
She allows herself five seconds of relief.
She catches herself still massaging her ankle a minute later. She folds her hands neatly back in her lap.
Eventually, Sandrone’s earlier frustrations burst at the seams. “It was supposed to go differently,” she says.
The words come more abruptly than intended. She adjusts her tone.
“In terms of planning,” she adds. Sandrone exhales. “I’m sorry for being late.”
Columbina hums softly.
“I’m telling you—I did give myself a window of time. But there were just so many things that…”
A small crease forms between her brows. She presses her fingers against her ankle again.
“That’s it,” she says, deciding that she’s going to be saying too much if she continues. “It was supposed to go differently.”
Silence settles between them for a moment. Columbina watches her with an unreadable expression.
“You know,” she replies, “you could’ve just asked me to sit on a couch with you and eat berries or something.”
Sandrone blinks. “Berries,” she repeats.
Smiling, Columbina doesn’t meet her gaze, finger playing with the edge of her plate. “I would’ve been satisfied.”
Sandrone stares for a moment. Her fingers still against her ankle. “That’s not the point,” she says, quieter now. “I can do better than that.”
The smile doesn’t change. “I know,” Columbina says.
Later, the check arrives neatly, placed within Sandrone’s reach.
She snatches it up before the server’s hand has fully withdrawn. “I’ll take care of it,” she says, already reaching for her card.
Columbina glances up. “We can split—”
“No,” she states with an air of finality. “It’s on me.”
Soft eyes watch her for a second. Then, Columbina leans back slightly. “Alright.”
Sandrone slides the card into the folder. Closes it. Settles it on the edge of the table.
She feels control being restored back to her evening. She folds her hand in her lap for the wait.
When the server returns, it’s placed back in front of Sandrone.
“Whenever you’re ready,” is what the server says as she steps away.
Sandrone opens it without hesitation.
The hesitation comes after. Because she doesn’t move. Because surely there’s something incorrect.
Her eyes scan the receipt. The small lines printed at the bottom. She checks to make sure that this is indeed her card, and this is their order.
She blinks. Reads it again.
Card declined.
Across from her, Columbina tilts her head slightly.
Sandrone’s fingers tighten against the edge of the folder. “That’s not correct,” she says quietly but firmly.
Back-up plan. She reaches for her bag and begins to search, pushing aside items in what she hoped is a calm manner and not anything like the frantic urgency that she feels bubbling up beneath her skin.
Cash. She’s looking for cash. She finds her wallet. Opens it up.
She doesn’t let her expression change when she confirms that she doesn’t carry cash with her.
She inhales slowly, the air catching just slightly on the way in.
“This is—” she starts.
A hand moves into her field of vision without urgency.
And Columbina has already placed her own card into the folder before Sandrone can react. “Here,” she says lightly.
Sandrone freezes. “No,” she says. “Uh-uh. That’s not necessary.”
Too late. The server returns, as if on the same wavelength as Columbina, and takes the folder with a polite nod before either of them can say anything.
Silence.
Sandrone doesn’t move. Her wallet is halfway back into her bag. She slowly lowers her arms, feeling somewhat defeated.
Card declined. No cash. Date has to pay.
She feels the restaurant around them become distant. Across from her, Columbina doesn’t say anything quite yet.
Sandrone exhales slowly through her nose. “That wasn’t necessary,” she repeats.
Columbina’s expression softens. A hint of amusement shines through her eyes. “You can get the next one. Promise.”
After a moment, Sandrone just inclines her head once, sure that she’s turned red from humiliation.
When they step outside, it’s become cooler than it had been earlier. Quieter, too, compared to the restaurant.
Her ankle makes itself known again with each step as a steady reminder of the evening. She adjusts her pace automatically to match Columbina’s as they walk.
“I parked in a garage nearby,” she says evenly. “It’s not far.”
She keeps her focus forward as she leads the way, making sure to path her way through the walkways and navigate the streets with a quiet precision.
Because the evening keeps replaying in her head, piece by piece. Each individual circumstance that had accumulated to… whatever this situation is now. Each potentially small thing—if extracted—that surely suggests some sort of cosmic force trying to send her a signal.
For what, she doesn’t know.
But, she thinks to herself, this has been unrealistically suboptimal. Even considering her own margin of variance.
The reservation. The delay to literally everything. Phone dying. Rolling her ankle. Card declined.
She grits her teeth and makes sure that Columbina doesn’t notice.
They reach the garage, and the shift from open air to concrete enclosure immediately greets them. Sandrone moves them toward the stairwell without hesitation.
She keeps her gaze lifted toward the stacks of levels above them as she leads them up the stairs, each individual step echoing back to them. She keeps an eye out for the level in which she’d parked.
The level in which she’d parked.
She glances up a little bit farther. Stacks of identical repetition.
She blinks. The level.
She’d noted it in her head. She always remembers which floor she parks.
Probably the fifth level. Yes, the fifth. She doesn’t change her expression.
“Up,” she says, sure of herself.
Columbina follows her to the fifth floor. And they peek out into the rows of cars.
“Higher,” she says without faltering, already turning on her heel back into the stairwell. “Not this one.”
The next floor. They pause on the turn. Scan the cars.
Sandrone turns before her hesitation becomes noticeable. “Farther up.”
The next floor. She steps out and looks. No car.
Slow inhalation. Exhalation. “Next.”
There’s a shift behind her as they’re on the stairs again. Sandrone is pointedly ignoring the slight burn in her thighs from the workout of hiking up all these flights of stairs.
A subtle breath of air, as if Columbina let out a single light laugh. “You didn’t quite plan for this, did you?” she says pointedly.
Sandrone stops and turns. Both of them are a little bit out of breath. She gives herself a moment of resting on the railing, fingers curled against the metal. She gives herself a moment before composing herself and keeping her expression neutral.
“I don’t remember the floor,” she says simply.
For a second, neither of them pick up the words that float between them.
Then, Columbina laughs, clearly unbothered. Softly, she adds, “I can see that.” She shakes her head with an amused grin. “This is certainly a day that I won’t be forgetting anytime soon.”
Sandrone stares at her like she’s more than just two steps away. Like she’s not even on the same floor in this parking garage.
Resignation hangs on her like a heavy coat. “Right.”
She turns and starts up the next flight, Columbina following quietly.
They find it eventually. It was indeed farther up.
Her car. She could almost say that she misses the thing.
“Found it,” she announces without excitement, walking closer.
Columbina smiles. “See? Easy.”
Sandrone doesn’t respond to that. She can’t tell if it was supposed to be sarcastic or not.
She moves ahead slightly, reaching for the passenger door. A simple action. She intentionally angles her body so that when she closes her hand around the handle and pulls—
Her ankle gives with a sharp and sudden tilt, immediately throwing her off-balance. The world tilts to the side for a split second, concrete rushing up in her peripheral vision, her grip slipping—
And then, she makes contact with…
Arms around her body. Columbina’s arms.
She freezes.
Her breath is caught somewhere in her lungs. Her hand is still half-curled around nothing as she registered the fact that she is actually not on the hard concrete floor.
For a moment, neither of them move. Sandrone feels heat rising sharply to her face, a violent show of embarrassment.
And the proximity. Her arms hanging awkwardly to the side, Columbina’s arms looped under them. A slightly uncomfortable chafe on her bare skin from the commotion. Her hair, having fallen in her face; and Columbina’s dark locks brushing up right against her skin.
Her thoughts stall completely.
“... I’m fine,” she says quickly.
She straightens immediately, pulling herself back into alignment, smoothing over places that have no impact on her state.
“I’m fine,” she repeats, quieter this time.
Columbina doesn’t argue. She just lets her go and gives her a knowing look.
Sandrone opens the door without further incident, and both of them step into the car.
She seats herself behind the wheel with rigid posture, plugging her phone into the charger. The screen lights up after a second, and notifications flood in.
She ignores most of them, but she does take note of a text from Columbina, hours earlier.
She stares at it for a while.
A confirmation of what had transpired over the course of what was supposed to be an excellent first date.
She sets the phone down. The car idles. Sets her hands on the wheel with still fingers, gaze fixed forward.
“Today was probably the most embarrassing day I’ve ever had in recent times. I’m sorry.”
She doesn’t look at Columbina yet. Her formal apology is still being formed on her tongue.
“This is not my standard of an evening,” she continues. “It was less than ideal. The outcome.”
She glaces over briefly. Columbina’s watching her, head tilted, expression unreadable.
Quietly, Sandrone says, “I can do better. I’ll make a better date.”
Columbina hums. “Maybe so,” she says.
Sandrone frowns faintly. She exhales as she recalls more of the details of the day, frustration lining her breath. “The traffic. I don’t even know what was going on. Some construction, or something,” she rambles on, complaints flowing easily from her mouth. “And the reservation system failed. Five minutes is insane.”
Her jaw tightens, unable to look at Columbina anymore.
“The card. I don’t know what was wrong with it. It’ll be fixed next time. And this garage. Why it’s so full, I have no idea. I’ve never parked up this high before. That’s probably why I got lost. And the ankle—”
She cuts herself off when Columbina’s hand comes up and touches her jaw. A light touch, but deliberate.
Turns her head slightly.
Before Sandrone can process it, Columbina leans in and presses her lips to hers.
Everything stops. The complaints that had been assembling in her thoughts collapses into nothing in an instant.
For a second, she doesn’t move. Doesn’t respond. Doesn’t breathe.
Then Columbina pulls back slightly, just enough to look at her.
“I’m not worried about it at all,” she says softly. “I’m telling you, I had fun.”
Silence.
Sandrone’s face is noticeably warm. Her grip on the steering wheel tightens.
She stares at her for too long, finding everything and nothing to look at.
“... Fine,” she says after a beat. “I did too.”
A satisfied smile finds its place on Columbina’s lips, small and distinct. “Did you make any other plans for our date?”
It takes a second to process the question. “Yes, actually,” Sandrone says. But, after a moment of thinking, she adds, “Well. I was planning on a walk.”
She shifts in her seat. Her ankle protests.
“But my ankle.”
She shakes her head in disbelief.
“That was supposed to be the failsafe option.”
Columbina hums thoughtfully. “Hmm. Maybe you should ice it if it’s been bothering you all evening.”
“Now?” She glances at her.
“Yes. I have ice packs in my apartment.”
Sandrone blinks again. “... Am I being invited to your apartment on the first date?” she asks.
Columbina’s expression doesn’t change. “And I have a couch.”
A second later, she unexpectedly lets out a small chuckle. “Got it.”
She reaches over and takes Columbina’s hand. For a moment, looking down at their hands, she feels something in her body shift to being content.
She laces her fingers slightly tighter with Columbina’s.