Josh stops in his boss’s empty office first to clean up a bit. He examines his reflection, appraising. He’s never been able to let go of this habit of quickly cataloging the flaws in his appearance. The long nose that dominates his entire fucking face? Check. Bags under his eyes from thirty years of insomnia? Check. Nothing in his teeth from tasting dozens of spoonfuls of under-seasoned red quinoa? Check—not that he’s planning to showcase a slightly crooked open-mouth smile in the dining room. He’s pretty sure less than half a dozen people on Earth have ever seen it.
He pulls out his phone. No text from Sophie. Again.
Things had felt precarious since last Sunday. As Sophie left his apartment, he’d spontaneously dropped an “I love you” into their standard goodbye as she walked to the elevator. She paused and turned her head. In that moment, Josh managed to convince himself that she would jog back to his door and embrace him with tears in her eyes. Naturally, sex in his small foyer would follow （against the wall, perhaps?）， along with a full confession of feelings, and possibly the planning of a weekend trip to Rhinebeck.
What she’d actually said, with a smile that could best be described as pleasant, was, “That’s so nice.”
Then she’d stepped on the elevator.
He’s been analyzing that specific intonation of “so nice” for four days. He’s always struggled with that sort of ambiguity. “Nice” is positive; it’s also not “I love you, too,” which, as far as Josh is concerned, is the only response you want to that question. There’s an art to navigating the space between dating and relationship and he’d fucked it up by rushing the climactic declaration. Now this incident is part of his brain’s repertoire before surrendering to the REM cycle.
He drops the phone in his pocket. Anchor.
The dining room offers a different sort of sonic chaos than the kitchen. The laughter of a few loud blowhards booming over the self-consciously-cool-but-unobtrusive jazz playlist that the owner favors. The tinkling of dessert spoons scraping against plates. Chairs being pushed back by guests who are starting to feel the effects of the second bottle of cab sav as they stand up to leave.
If ninety-eight percent of a service is spent sweating, yelling, calculating, cajoling, tweezing behind the swinging door of the kitchen, then touching tables is his victory lap. Of course, a glowing review from a food publication is an even better form of validation.
Stopping at Table Five, Josh convincingly pretends that he has no idea who the woman is, even though he’s careful to introduce himself with his full name. He politely inquires about their first course dishes. The baccalà fritto was “not too forward,” she says. The torchio was “interesting.”
It must be the least revealing conversation he’s had this week. Well, aside from that exchange with Sophie.
Josh excuses himself, but something stops him from returning to the kitchen—a loud shriek of laughter from the marble-top bar.
There’s only one patron there: Radhya’s friend. Jace—which can’t possibly be the bartender’s real name—is chatting her up, showing her something on his phone. Only her back is visible. Brown hair and a black shirt—nothing remarkable, but there’s something familiar about this woman prickling in his brain.
She tilts her head back and lets out another unrestrained peal of laughter—the kind you can’t fake out of politeness. As far as he can remember—and he remembers all his successes and failures in vivid, high-definition detail—the only occasion on which he’s elicited that kind of enthusiasm from a woman was during sex.
It’s her speaking voice that gives her away—the specific, slightly throaty timbre that lodged in his head three years ago. There’s no reason for it other than the simple truth that we remember horribly awkward incidents more clearly than pleasant encounters.
Josh approaches the bar, not to confirm that the woman is, indeed, his ex-girlfriend’s ex-roommate. He merely needs to know if there’s another food order coming in from the bar. That’s all.
Jace lifts his head to greet him. “How ya going, mate?” Josh has always suspected his accent is fake.
“Chef,” Josh corrects, careful not to make eye contact with her. Yet.
Jace turns to his only patron. “Is that not the best thing you’ve ever put in your mouth?”
Ari Sloane places the tumbler down on the bar top. Without a coaster.
“That’s a pretty high standard.” She leans forward, forearms resting on the bar. “What else do you have up your sleeve?”