He makes her a meal.
They flirt, lapse into a long conversation on the couch. The fire crackles.
Red wine turns into white, as they sip through their stories. Mix, pink, it becomes in their bellies.
Fuzzy, the room swirls. She doesn't want to leave, he would ask that she stay.
Pulls herself away, sways toward the door. A jacket is produced from the closet. He helps her slip it on.
It reaches to her knees.
He fills up a water container, in case she becomes parched on the drive home. Better judgement would force her to stay.
But the wine is pink now, mixed.
He helps her zip up the coat. A gesture, so tender, and perhaps the most romantic in her life. He is still a stranger, though less than before.
Outside, the cold air, she clutches the water container. Nervous now.
Embrace. Long. Slight turn of the heads, a meeting.
Lips introducing themselves, tongues, mouths.
Butterflies, heart vessels working, veins filling. Indescribable synapses firing. Un-nameable hormones and fluids injecting. Happiness is chemically produced. Endorphins settling.
They pull away, finally, though both would prefer to stay. The moon is almost overhead.
Something passes between them.
It remains and gets comfortable.