Renee fixed the strap once and watched Cal pretend he had not noticed.
They were in the back room of a little jazz bar where the lights made every glass look warmer than it was. Renee liked the table because it sat half out of sight. Not hidden. Just private enough for a grown woman to test a man's manners without turning the night cheap.
Cal was sixty-eight and newly retired, though he still wore a watch as if somebody might call him back to work. He had been careful all evening. Careful with his jokes, careful with his compliments, careful not to let his eyes stay anywhere too long.
That was why Renee let the strap slip just enough to need fixing.
Nothing showed. Nothing had to. She lifted two fingers to her shoulder and settled the dress back into place. Cal looked down at his napkin so fast she almost laughed.
You saw it, she said.
I saw you fix it.
That is not the same thing.
His face changed then, not guilty, exactly. More like a man caught wanting to be decent and wanting something else at the same time. Renee liked that fight. It meant there was still heat under all that good behavior.
The trumpet player took a slow solo near the front. Renee let the sound fill the pause. She did not move closer. She only rested her hand near the stem of her glass and waited.
Cal finally looked at her shoulder, then her face. He did it in that order, and he knew she knew. Renee smiled because the look had arrived late, but honest. Sometimes late was better. It gave a man time to choose.
