The town was called Dunmore. Population: small. Seagulls: many.
Nora sat on the edge of her rented bed at 6:15 PM and stared at her shoes on the floor. She had brought two pairs. One practical. One less practical. She had been staring at them for eleven minutes.
This is ridiculous, she thought. I am a grown woman. I translated a 400-page legal document last month. I can have dinner with a stranger.
She picked up her phone. Ethan had texted two hours ago: "There's a place right on the water. Wooden tables, no tablecloths, they light candles when it gets dark. Is that okay?"
She had typed back: "That sounds perfect."
It was only four words, but she had rewritten them six times.
Outside her window, the sea was turning gold. The sun was low and heavy on the horizon, pressing its weight into the water. She could hear the waves from here — a slow, breathing rhythm that was either calming or unsettling, she couldn't decide which.
Two years ago, Nora had been engaged. His name was Piotr, and he was kind, and they had been wrong for each other in ways that neither of them noticed until it was too late. The relationship ended the way winter ends — not dramatically, just gradually, the warmth leaving one degree at a time until one morning you realize you are cold and you don't remember when it happened.
Since then, she had been careful. She had kept her life small and manageable and safe. She worked. She read. She watered her plants consistently, which was more than she had ever managed before.
She was good at being alone. She had gotten very, very good at it.
She put on the less practical shoes.