Two pizzas arrived on wooden boards before anyone had finished pouring the wine.

The room was dim in that way small places get when the night has settled in and no one is hurrying anyone out. Two pizzas had arrived on wooden boards, one scattered with basil that had gone slightly limp from the heat. A small black dish sat between us, and the wine glasses kept catching what little light there was. I remember the table more than the food — the way three of us leaned in around it, how the boards took up most of the surface, how a single water glass somehow felt important. Two faces across from me, smiling at whoever was holding the camera. I think it was me. I don't remember what we'd talked about before the pizzas came, and I don't remember what we said after. Only the middle part, the long pause where everyone reaches at once and no one apologizes for it. That was the whole evening, really. Basil, wood, wine, the quiet relief of being indoors with people who weren't in a rush to be anywhere else.