"Do you ever think about it," she asked.

"Try not to," came the reply. "Why would I want to?"

"Because it's romantic. Because it's a challenge," she replied. "How do you make something like that count?"

He twisted his glass between his hands hard enough that it pulled at the skin.

"Isn't that part of the challenge? Making it count every time?"

"Yeah, but what if you knew? What if you knew you had one more shot and that was it?"

He twirled his glass once more sending it spinning to the center of the table. He pushed back, then came forward to rest his chin of the palm of his hand and said:

"Do you see the way I look at you? How am I supposed to bottle that up and uncork it in a single moment - a 4th-of-July spectacular that makes you ooh and ahh - and then not want more?"

He breathed through his mouth so hard it moved the straw in his glass, now almost a foot away, he continued.

"I love you. It's not a single thing you do or I do. It's all those things rolled together that come out in a series of intimate moments. If it was something we could express in a single act, we'd be running around nailing every person that looked at us just the right way."

She tilted her head back and away.

"You're not even trying."

Harshly, but not intending it that way, "You realize what you're asking?"

"Fine. Where would it happen?"

"Don't know."

"How?"

"I. Don't. Know. Look, you're asking me to sum up feelings that I haven't been able to put into words or into a single act."

She shoved her plate into the center of the table and it tinked against his glass. She retreated into her seat, crossing her arms across her chest, pulling her legs tight to the bench,

"Do you know anything?"

He sighed. Dropped his arm to the table,

"About our last kiss?"

"Only that I hope it hasn't happened yet."