“A messy art form, in this case,” Julia teased, nodding towards the small pile of crumbs accumulating on his plate.
At that moment, a harried-looking server, balancing a precarious tower of dirty plates, bumped into their table. Dylan’s ice water glass teetered and then, with agonizing slowness, tipped over, sending a small wave of water across the table. It landed squarely on Julia’s lap.
“Oh, no! I am so, so incredibly sorry!” the server gasped, his eyes wide with horror.
Julia yelped. “Whoa! That’s … “ She blinked down to look at the dark, spreading wetness on her jeans. It was pooling uncomfortably. It was also cold.
Dylan shot up right away and grabbed a handful of napkins from their table. “Are you okay?”
Dylan, who could identify a Bordeaux by its terroir and had once coaxed a stubborn red wine stain out of a cream-colored rug using a combination of salt and club soda, approached the spill cautiously. Secretly, he was waging a small war—to rub, or not to rub. When it came to red wine, the key was not to rub, (which would only spread the stain), but to apply firm, direct pressure. But water on a live body was different. How to help without encroaching on Julia’s jeans?
“Here,” he said, handing her the extra napkins. “Tactical blotting is key.”
His touch was … unexpectedly nice,Julia thought, for a quick second.
“Tactical blotting?” she smiled, taking the napkins.
He was now standing beside her, careful to maintain a safe distance from her lap. A few nearby patrons were now observing the situation.
For her part, Julia was trying to discreetly absorb the water with the napkins, without calling attention to her inner thigh. “Wet jeans are a fashion statement,” she said, looking up at Dylan.
“Wetly distressed,” he smiled.
The server, having mopped up the worst of the spill, offered profuse apologies and a complimentary pastry. Julia and Dylan both waved him off, their attention back on each other.
“So,” Julia said, picking up her fork again, “About tactical blotting.”
“It’s all about knowing whennotto rub,” he said, smiling.
“When not to rub,” she smiled back.
“You have to be gentle,” Dylan said, locking eyes with her.
“Exactly.”
“And patient.”
“Yes,” said Julia. “Patience is key.”
“It’s all about textile preservation.”
“I know what you mean,” she said.
Despite the sobering splash and the many unanswered questions, Julia felt a subtle shift in her. The day was still unfolding and something like hope was growing inside her.
Outside, Commonwealth Avenue stretched before them, lined with trees just beginning to leaf out. Julia was grateful for the late morning sun. The dark patch on her jeans looked less stark as it started to dry. Dylan, a head taller than her, moved with an easy stride along the bustling sidewalks.
“Where are we off to now?” Julia asked, stopping at the corner.
“Do you trust me?” Dylan asked, stopping next to her.
“What did you have in mind?”
“Close your eyes and give me your hand,” he said.
He reached into his shirt’s pocket, placed two tickets on her hand and said, “You can open them now.”
Julia looked at two bright yellow tickets and raised an eyebrow. Then her lips curled into an amused smile.
