Nora knew temptation was rarely dramatic. It did not kick down a door or announce itself with music. Sometimes it sat across from you in a restaurant booth, wearing a blue sport coat, asking whether your husband still played golf on Fridays.
She should have said no to dinner. Everyone in town knew Richard, and everyone knew Nora had been married long enough to make leaving look selfish. But Richard had written one sentence on the back of a church program: You looked lonely when you laughed.
That was the trouble. He had noticed the part nobody else did.
The wine glass was cool under her fingers. Her emerald dress brushed her knees when she shifted, and Richard's eyes followed the movement before he caught himself. Nora liked that he tried to be decent. She liked even more that he failed by half an inch.
"We shouldn't be here," he said.
"No," Nora said, smiling toward the candle between them. "But you already knew that before you asked."
He looked down at the menu though they had already ordered. The poor man needed somewhere to put his eyes. Nora let him have that mercy for a moment.
A couple from her bridge club passed near the hostess stand. Nora felt the old fear rise, then settle. She was tired of living as if every glance belonged to a jury.
Richard reached for the bread basket and his hand brushed hers. Neither of them moved away quickly enough to make it innocent.
When dessert came, Nora did not look at the menu. She asked Richard what he would order if nobody in town knew his name. He answered too fast, then laughed at himself. That laugh did more damage than the wine. It made him sound free, and freedom had always been the most dangerous flavor on the table.
