We left the restaurant still hungry and found a taco truck three blocks away. Under a tangle of string lights, with our knees nearly touching at a small outdoor table, Maya finally looked entirely like herself again. She took one bite, closed her eyes, and declared that this was a better date, which was difficult to argue with while holding a taco that had cost less than our restaurant water. I told her dating her seemed remarkably similar to being friends with her, except I was apparently allowed to stare longer.
“You’ve been staring frequently,” she said, lifting one eyebrow. I told her I was experimenting with honesty, and the joke settled into a quiet that neither of us rushed to fill. A strand of hair had caught against her cheek, and I brushed it back before asking whether I could kiss her. She smiled and said yes, very softly, and I leaned toward the woman I had spent two years teaching myself not to reach for.
