This is it

The cab driver twists in his seat.
“This is it.”

The kitchen was short-handed. She rationed the bread, smiled for more olive oil. He emptied his wallet of receipts and taught her to make origami animals. She made a pelican from a post-it with her number written on it. She smiled, and took another postage stamp of bread.

Between spring risotto and rhubarb streusel, they listed Kettle Chip flavours, Eels albums and characters from Frasier in order of preference. She paused defending Souljacker and Noel Shempsky to take a sip of dessert wine and asked him if he could taste cloves.

In her apartment, they stood in parchment coloured slices of light from the window. Her breath smelt of rosewater and cherries when their silhouettes met on the wall; she traced them with a pencil and straightened his tie.

When she kicked off her shoes and barefooted to make coffee, he left. His hat was still on the table by the front door and he heard her clinking and humming. Outside, he stood in blossom confettied on the top step, remembering his hand on her back, his thumb between her shoulder blades.

“This is it.”

He nods.
“You’re telling me.”