The table was dark wood and warm light, the kind that makes everything feel a little softer at the edges. A candle flickered in glass, and beside it the quiet shine of water goblets and a cocktail—simple things, arranged like a small ceremony.
Dinner at the Gatsby had that unhurried date-night rhythm: forks resting between bites, conversation stretching out in the pauses. One plate came creamy and speckled with herbs, comfort in a wide white bowl. Another was a mound of rice dotted with seafood, the kind of dish that smells like butter and the sea and makes you slow down without trying.
There are nights that don’t need a big plan. You show up, you sit close, you let the room do what it’s good at—dim lights, clinking glass, and the steady reassurance of a meal that tastes like someone cared.
Walking away, I kept thinking about how the smallest details hold the most weight: a candle, a shared plate, the familiar feeling of being exactly where you are.
