She sat across from me, stirring her coffee with a wooden spoon. The cafe gave us each one, and we were expected to use it and leave it on the table afterward. I sometimes took mine. I wondered if she took her, too. I should know that, after years of being together. Fourteen years with Agatha, nine married.

With a wink she passes me the sugar and I thank her, pouring some into my drink. She knows me. I know her, too. Like how I know that on the night we met …

Wait, I can’t remember that, actually. Was it a night, or a day? Did we meet online? Mutual friends? I remember the first few dates, but that wasn’t how we met. Everything before seemed like a blur. I was young, she was young - we were young together, probably reckless. Right?

“Agatha,” I say, reaching for her hand. She draws hers back slowly and looks at me. “How did we meet?”

“What do you mean? This is our first date.”

Ah. That’s how we met.