Two people across a table from one another in a restaurant made of smudges of red and beige—of course, not really made of smudges, but it appears so in the candlelight. Or would if they saw it at all, but they stare only at each other, each of them pitched slightly forward, as if they would sup off one another's breath and never mind the menus that lie in front of them.
Their words are low and intent and revolve around the things they have in common, though it is their vast differences from one another that entice them. There is an intensity in their talk that belies the words, a burning in their eyes that is more than a trick of the flickering flame bowled between them.
He is thinking he is very lucky and may yet be luckier later in the evening.
She, for her part, has not yet decided.
But when her foot brushes his leg as she shifts in her chair, there are blazes that go up. Suddenly the candle is too hot, the restaurant too stuffy. Though they've only just received their first course, neither can wait for the meal to end.