It was our anniversary, and for once, Michael wasn’t in my immediate thoughts. My husband had booked reservations at a nice restaurant, we had dressed in our finest, and we sat looking at each other in a loving, dreamy state, like we had when we had first started dating.
Michael had done his usual thing of ordering multiple starters, and was still in the process of working through them when I’d finished my own, the sticky sauce from my chicken wings lingering indefinitely on my fingers.
“I’m just going to go wash my hands.” I said, twinkling my fingers towards him.
“Mhmm.” He replied, his mouth full of garlic bread and/or wedges.
On the way to the bathroom, I bumped into Michael, literally.
“Oh, sorry!” I exclaimed, not even realising I wasn’t looking where I was going.
We both stared at each other for a moment, his hands on my shoulders, keeping me from falling, perplexed at how we were both in the same place.
And then both of our minds synced, and he was pushing me affectionately towards the nearest door.
The men’s room.
It was a nice restaurant, and the restroom was cleaner than most, if not all, other public bathrooms, but it was still a bathroom.
