It started with a typo,
    or maybe a warning.

“Reminder: I wanna go to Houston’s.”

And me,
    reading too fast,
            too Texan,
            too sure of myself—

“No one wants to go to Houston.”

Which was funny
      for about half a second…
      before I realized
      you meant the one
      with steak,
      low lights,

      and that particular kind of booth
      where a night can sneak up on you.

So:
   Houston’s.

You with your spinach dip.
Me with deviled eggs.

Both of us acting like appetizers
                       were _not_,
                          in fact,

                  the entire meal.

Then the steak arrived—
              glorious,
           unnecessary,

     almost rude in its perfection.

We fought the good fight.

A bite every few minutes.

A long, slow surrender.

Two warriors
    taken down
    by abundance.

By dessert
   we could only laugh.

Boxes for later.

A mental note
  that Coal was about to inherit
       a better dinner
         than most humans get on purpose.

Then Irby’s,
     because of course Irby’s.

A nightcap,
  or three,
  and somewhere in there
  the sky just gave up pretending,

  and started pouring Buckhead directly onto itself.

I had the jacket.

North Face.

Prepared for weather,
         if not for the way

         you looked at me across Houston’s.

That look.

God.

It’s been a while
     since I’ve seen your eyes
     turn “on”

     the way they did that night.

I’ve missed that spark.

That little voltage.

That sudden yes
     that doesn’t need
     any help from language.

And then there’s that word—

                      “on.”

The way you say it…
    like you’re flicking
    some private switch
    only we can see.

I swear,
  every time it leaves your mouth

                  I melt a little.

Not metaphorically.
Not poetically.

    Just… mush.

Like whatever part of me
     was trying to act cool
     hears that one syllable

     and clocks out immediately.

I got you wrapped in rainproof,
     sent you toward your Uber
                 clean and dry,
   and stole the sweetest kiss
                   right there
    in the middle of the storm.

Then I finished my drink,
     walked back to Sylvan
     soaked in all the right ways,
     put on *Major League*…

     like a man trying (failing)
     to act normal after magic,
     and eventually drifted off.

Maybe I’ll see you again
         before the trip.

Maybe I won’t.

But if not—

    those eyes at Houston’s
          were more than enough
               to carry me farther
                  than spring break.

That look alone
     was the highlight of my month.

At least.

Maybe more.

And that’s saying something,
                for a night
        where neither of us

        could finish dinner.