That moment when you’re in a restaurant, one where the decor is repurposed and the second story window looks out to nothing really, the ocean being the other direction; that place where kale is on the menu–Brussels and pork belly too–because they go well with antiqued bannisters, and the menus are paper throwaways and the charcuterie plate features pickled shoshitos. That moment when you talk a lot about your kids even though you’re on a date, and when you try not to–though not diligently–because your kid kicked a goal in soccer yesterday (on his birthday even!) and had his best birthday party ever even though it was at a bowling alley in a not so favorite part of town. That moment when you’re remarking a Castelvetrano olive and noting it most certainly had to have been marinated in orange juice and fennel seed–you say so even–before realizing you’ve probably broken some social code, that you’re probably a jerk for knowing what a Castelvetrano olive is in the first place, show-off; that moment when it doesn’t matter because in sharing bites off each other’s plates, your song suddenly comes on–that song, the one you fell in love to–plays over the restaurant speakers. It could be salmon belly or burger on your fork, but it’s a nice moment when the tines pause midways to your mouth and your mouth just smiles instead.