We met for lunch in a dark, Italian restaurant, tucked away in a booth in the back. We killed a bottle of cabernet and picked at our food. Too busy talking about our frustrations, wondering how we got here. How our marriages disintegrated to glorified roommates. We laughed and flirted as if we were teenagers, as if the real world didn't exist beyond the front door. We basked in the unfamiliar feeling of being desired.
Then he asked, "Where to next?"