Waltz Time - Entry 7 - After Dinner

Waltz Time — Entry 7

After Dinner

“Sometimes, it's in a single moment—one shared look—that the course of your life quietly bends toward something unimaginable.”

When the check arrived, you glanced at it without breaking the rhythm of our conversation, sliding your card across the table in one smooth motion. I noticed your hands — the quiet confidence in the way you moved, the musician’s grace that seemed to live in your fingertips.

We stepped outside into the hum of 42nd Street, the air thick with the scent of street pretzels and the faint metallic tang of subway grates. A light mist had begun to fall, turning the pavement into a patchwork of blurred reflections — neon signs smeared into pinks and golds beneath our feet.

You walked beside me, not ahead, not behind, matching my pace as if we’d been walking together for years. Conversation drifted between laughter and those pauses that felt less like silence and more like music hanging in the air, waiting for the next note.

When we reached the corner, you asked if I wanted to take the long way to the station. I said yes without hesitation. The city felt different in your company — softer somehow, as if the edges of everything had been rounded by the warmth between us.

Then you slipped your arm through mine, an easy gesture that caught me off guard in its familiarity. We walked like that through the drizzle, the rhythm of our steps syncing without effort, our shoulders brushing now and then. The world beyond that small connection blurred — just lights, rain, and the low murmur of the city’s night.

We passed a bakery that was still open, with the window fogged from the heat inside. You stopped to look in, and I watched your reflection in the glass, thinking how strange it was that someone who had been a stranger only days ago could already feel so familiar.

At the entrance to the A train, the drizzle deepened, and the light above the stairwell flickered in that way New York lights do, as if unsure whether to keep shining. We lingered, the night holding us in place.

You looked at me for a long moment, your eyes steady, searching without pressure. I felt the air shift — as if time had slowed and the world had narrowed to the space between us. My breath caught. My pulse answered. 

And then you kissed me.

It wasn’t tentative. It was electric — the kind of kiss that short-circuits reason, that moves through you with a force you didn’t expect and aren’t sure you can contain. It lasted just long enough for me to forget where I was, for the city to vanish, for the rain to turn into something warm against my skin.

When you finally drew back, you held my gaze and said softly, “I hope you don’t mind… I mean, I hope that wasn’t too forward.”

I swallowed, my voice quieter than I expected. “No,” I said. “It was nice.”

You smiled — not the wide grin from earlier, but something smaller, warmer, as if you were tucking this moment away.

We stood there another beat, the train rumbling faintly below, before you stepped back toward the avenue. I turned toward the stairs, but not before glancing over my shoulder. You were still watching me, and I found myself holding your eyes just a second longer than I should have.

On the train, the rhythm of the wheels on the tracks seemed to echo my heartbeat — steady but charged, as if some new tempo had been set in motion. I stared at my reflection in the darkened window, knowing I had just crossed a threshold without even realizing it until now.

My head was spinning in wonder. Was I ever even going to hear from him again? The evening had ended in a kiss — not just a kiss, but that kiss. Nice, yes. More than nice. 

But now the quiet uncertainty settled in. Would he call me? Should I call him? Or would this night remain suspended in memory, a perfect fragment untouched by what came next?

💓