Erin chose the small table because it forced honesty. At thirty-six, she had learned that distance lets people perform. Close space does something else. It makes a man hear himself breathe before he can hide behind a clever line.
Michael arrived with a joke ready. She could see it sitting on his face, polished and useless. He was older, maybe mid-sixties, and handsome in the tired way of men who had been careful for too long.
She let him pull out the chair, then moved hers closer before he sat. Not enough to make a scene. Just enough to change the rules. His joke disappeared.
The lounge was dim, all brass light and low music. Erin wore a dark green dress because it made her eyes look sharper. She liked sharpness. Softness was easy to misunderstand.
Michael asked if she wanted another drink. Erin said she wanted him to finish whatever he had been about to say when he walked in. He looked at the table, then at her hand near the glass.
I forgot, he admitted. That was better than the joke. Honest embarrassment had a warmth to it.
Erin smiled and leaned back, giving him just enough room to recover. She was not there to trap him. She wanted to see whether an older man could lose his script and still stay in the room.
When he finally spoke again, his voice was lower. He said she made it hard to remember safe things. Erin touched her glass and told him safe things were overrated after dinner.
Michael laughed once, under his breath, and the sound told her he had stopped trying to win. That was when Erin liked him best. A man can be charming for a room. It takes something better to be unsure in front of one woman and not run from it.
