Diane looked at her. Where did you get that? I have no idea. Clare said, "My brain generates things sometimes. Write it down.
I never write anything down. It disappears and I get new ones." Diane laughed and shook her head and excused herself to the restroom and then it was just Ethan and Clare. The table between them felt bigger. Or maybe it felt smaller.
He wasn't entirely sure which was more accurate. She's right, he said. You should write things down. Too much pressure. Clare wrapped both hands around her glass.
If you write it down, it becomes something it has to live up to. I'd rather just say things and let them be. That seems like a good philosophy in theory. It's a terrible philosophy in practice, but I've committed to it. She glanced sideways at him.
You want to know something, do I? Probably not. But I'm going to tell you anyway. He waited. I almost didn't come tonight, she said.
I was at my apartment. I was in actual pajamas. I was 20 minutes into a documentary about competitive cheesem. And I thought, she paused. What is the point?
He looked at her, not in a bad way, she said quickly, just in a seem to look for the word. A tired way. You know, when you're tired, not because you haven't slept, but because something has been wearing you down for a long time without you noticing. He knew exactly what she meant. He knew it in his bones.
"What changed your mind?" he asked. "She was quiet for a second. I texted Marcus that I'd be there," she said. And then I thought about who else would be there.
She didn't look at him and I put on real pants. He almost said something safe. Something careful and deflecting and warm but ultimately meaningless. He said instead, "I'm glad you did." She looked up.
"So am I," she said. Marcus came back from the bar at some point. "The conversation widened again." The night moved forward. Clare eventually slid off his stool naturally without comment when the crowd thinned enough that there was no longer any logistical reason not to and claimed a stool of her own.