"Date number three!" she said as she sat down at the table across from him.
"Indeed," he said and nodded his head slightly as if tipping an invisible hat.
"I read your book," she said.
"Fantastic. And what did you think?"
"It read like poetry," she said.
"That's good," he said.
"I liked the second chapter," she said.
"Twenty percent!" he said with a smile.
"They are rather long chapters," she said.
"Indeed," he said again. He really needed to work on his vocabulary. He was a writer, after all.
"I liked how it moved the plot forward," she said.
"Yeah, you know, the plot," she said and then laughed, that laugh that stopped time.
They had dinner and talked about politics and journalism and popular writers and the weather, in no particular order. She looked at her phone and said it was getting late and she had to go work on some things for school. She got up, placing her napkin on the table, taking a final sip of wine while she stood across from him, every part of her some kind of perfection. She pulled her bag off the back of her chair, they said their goodbyes and she left.
Joseph looked at his phone and simultaneously, instinctively pulled his notepad and pen from his pocket. He was going to write about her later that night.
The poet looked around the restaurant, picked up the book laying on the table, and opened it. He was going to write about her later that night.