Just Like Every Night
He walked into the restaurant wearing a crisp white shirt and grey slacks, topped with a fitted maroon corduroy jacket. It was her favorite among his otherwise dull collection of formal coats. It was his birthday, and as he did every year, he’d made a reservation at her favorite restaurant — never once forgetting.
At the front desk, a staff member greeted him with a warm smile.
“Welcome, sir, and happy birthday!” she beamed, gathering a handful of menus before leading him to his table.
It was set in the far corner — cozy and intimate. The tablecloth was perfectly tucked, a vase of real roses stood beside a gently flickering candle. He couldn’t stand restaurants that faked warmth with plastic flowers and LED lights. Sitting down, he carefully adjusted the plates and cutlery, aligning them just right for him and for her.
As the clock struck 5:45 p.m., a quiet nervousness crept in. She had promised to be there by 6. Just fifteen minutes. He needed time — to breathe, to rehearse. His fingers drifted to the small bump in his jacket pocket. He exhaled slowly.
A waiter approached.
“Just a few more minutes,” he said with a polite smile, raising his voice slightly but still soft enough not to disturb anyone nearby.
At exactly 6:00 p.m., his phone buzzed.
I just parked and am walking towards the restaurant.
His heart fluttered. His mind raced through the lines he’d prepared. Butterflies stirred. He cleared his throat with a small cough, took a sip of water with a lemon wedge, and turned to face the door.
Then she walked in.
As if guided by instinct, she came straight to his table. That radiant smile — the one that had always defined her — lit up the room. He stood, embraced her, helped her out of her coat, and pulled out her chair like a gentleman.
Their eyes met. Smiles exchanged. And just like that, the evening came alive.
He led the ordering — appetizers, wine, her favorite dessert — like a man who knew her soul inside and out. The dinner unfolded like a melody he never forgot.
When the bill was paid, he excused himself. By the time he returned, most of the tables were empty. It felt as though the world had paused just for them. Perfect timing.
He approached the table, something small clutched in his hand. He knelt before her.
She stood, eyes glistening, and nodded with a smile that said everything.
They embraced.
They left together, hand in hand, walking home through quiet streets. At his place, as she did every night, they laughed, drank, danced to their favorite songs, and made love.
Later, wrapped in the quiet warmth of the night, they lay beside each other — his hand in hers, her head resting on his chest. The music had long faded, but the rhythm of their shared breath remained. Slowly, he drifted into sleep, peaceful and unaware of the weight she carried for them both.
In the stillness of the night, she woke him gently and handed him his pills.
He looked at her, puzzled.
“Did you say yes?” he asked softly.
“Yes,” she whispered, kissing his forehead. “Just like every night.”
His dementia had made every day a return to that beautiful beginning — in the restaurant she had bought, just to keep the story alive.
And she — steadfast, loving, luminous — made sure it always ended with yes.