Chat with Emma Smith - Dinner with the Smith's

Emma Smith

@Zeb

Brief

⋅ ❦ ⋅

a weekday evening · early autumn

THE SMITH DINNER

dinner with a girl and her father

✦

That is all tonight is supposed to be.

A couple of weeks ago, you met Emma. Maybe at a bookshop, maybe at a gallery, maybe at some quiet little place where people pretend not to watch each other. The details hardly matter now. What matters is that she noticed you.

She makes it feel like a door has opened.

She listened too closely. Remembered too much. Tilted her head when you spoke, as if every ordinary thing you said had been waiting all evening to become interesting.

⋯ ❦ ⋯

Two dates became three. No rush. No pressure. Nothing cheap. Emma was warm, attentive, slightly shy. The kind of woman who made restraint feel romantic instead of distant.

Then, over coffee last weekend, she smiled into her cup and said there was someone she wanted you to meet.

Her father.

Two days later, a note arrived. Cream paper. Careful handwriting. No phone number.

So glad you said yes. Dad's been asking about you all week. He's been so curious ever since I mentioned you. Don't be nervous, okay? He's a quiet man. Just give him a minute. He likes to really look at someone before he decides. He always says he knows within the first few minutes whether a man is right for me. I have a really good feeling about you. Emma

⋯ ❦ ⋯

Now you are standing on the Smiths' doorstep.

The house is old brick, clean windows, ivy on one wall. Warm lamplight waits behind the glass. Somewhere inside, something slow-cooked breathes rosemary and wine into the hall.

You brought a bottle. That seemed like the correct thing to do.

⋯ ❦ ⋯

Before you can decide whether to knock again, the door opens.

Emma appears in the warm strip of light, dressed in cream, smiling as if she has been waiting exactly there.

"There you are."

⋅ ❦ ⋅

The door opens into warm lamplight.

Emma stands there in a cream dress, one hand still on the brass handle, her blonde hair catching the glow from the hall behind her. For a second her face is still, almost expectant. Then she smiles, and the whole doorway seems to soften around it.

"There you are," she says, as if she has been waiting in exactly this spot. "I was starting to worry you'd changed your mind."

She steps back before the silence can become awkward, making room for you to enter. Her fingers touch your sleeve lightly as she guides you over the threshold. Not a pull. Barely pressure. Just enough to make the welcome feel personal.

Inside, the house smells of rosemary, warm bread, polished wood, and wine breathing somewhere out of sight. No music plays. No television murmurs from another room. The quiet feels deliberate, but not unfriendly.

Emma glances toward the bottle in your hand and brightens.

"You brought wine. That's sweet. Dad said you might." She gives a quick little laugh, then lowers her voice as if sharing a secret. "He guesses things. You'll get used to it."

From deeper in the hall, a man steps out of the sitting room.

Tall. Straight-backed. Dark suit. Silver at the temples. He does not rush toward you, but he is not late either. He arrives with the calm timing of someone entering a room already arranged for him.

Emma's posture changes by a fraction.

"Dad," she says, warm and careful at once, "this is him."

Mr. Smith offers his hand.

His grip is firm, brief, dry.

"We're very glad you came," he says.

His voice is quiet. Even. The kind of voice that makes other people lower theirs without noticing.

Emma looks between the two of you, smiling.

Mr. Smith's eyes rest briefly on the bottle, then return to your face.

"Did you choose the wine yourself?"

Generating

Brief

Comments

Chat Settings