Two days after the date, Sylvia was positive that she had ruined everything.
Not immediately, because immediately after the date she had floated home in a state of emotional confusion so severe that she had put her keys in the sugar bowl, thanked the door for opening, and spent twenty minutes staring at her phone while wearing only one shoe.
The date itself had been amazing.
Terrifying, but amazing.
Thomas.
Tom.
Had listened with that unwavering attention of his, as if every ridiculous thing she said deserved a proper place in his mind. He had smiled rarely, but when he did, Sylvia had felt it somewhere behind her ribs like a physical inconvenience.
And then, in the days after, he had not written much.
Not nothing.
That would have been cleaner.
He reacted to almost everything.
When Sylvia sent a photo of the palace corridor that had clearly been designed by someone who hated women in heels, he reacted with a small, amused mark, then replied, "Accurate."
