Food. Wine. Light music. The ambiance of the date felt gratifying to Tate. Everything seemed perfect, even all the dust in Persimmon’s pad. Tate recalled a short story by Robert Riley called Toby’s Dinner that felt similar to his dinner with Persimmon: the perfect layout of plates, the finely cooked steak, chunky potatoes, and choice of imported beer; the beautiful arrangement of how Toby’s knees touched his unnamed date’s knees, and how their fingers brushed together when Toby reached for a piece of bread; the way Toby felt hypnotized by his dinner date’s smile, and constant gaze; the unfolding of conversation about Toby’s life in the city, mostly spent on the streets.
Tate fell into the evening with ease, enjoying their combined chatter of enjoyed summer reads, different types of tea, h
