Terrence said, "Hi. How are you?" He always says this. Terrence cannot order a sandwich without asking the person making the sandwich how their day is. It is one of the things I fell in love with about him. The waiter — whose name, I would find out later, was Brandt — did not answer. He looked at Terrence. He looked at me. He looked at Terrence's hand, which was resting on top of mine on the table — I was wearing Terrence's grandfather's ring, engagement ring, the ring I had put on my finger for the first time at a hotel on the Gulf Coast five weeks earlier. Brandt's eyes landed on the ring. I watched his expression

change. I am not going to tell you it was dramatic. It was small — a slight narrowing of the eyes, a tightening around the mouth. But it was real. Terrence did not notice. Terrence never notices. Terrence is a fundamentally trusting person. I did notice. I have been a tall Black gay man in the American South for thirty-one years. I notice everything, because I have had to. I ordered a negroni. Terrence ordered a glass of the Malbec. Brandt said "okay" and walked away. That was 7:41 PM. Our drinks did not arrive until 8:25 PM.