She kept every receipt from every meal we shared. A drawer full of proof we existed.
Crumpled paper from restaurants neither of them remembers. She remembers the totals. She remembers everything.
I found the drawer by accident.
Looking for scissors.
Instead I found receipts.
Dozens of them.
Folded. Crumpled. Some smoothed flat.
Every receipt from every meal we'd shared.
The Thai place on our first dinner. $37.12.
The pizza we split when her car broke down. $18.50.
The fancy place on her birthday where I ordered wrong. $94.00.
She'd kept every one.
Some had notes on the back.
He laughed so hard the waiter came over.
He let me steal his fries without complaining.
He said my name like it was a place he wanted to visit.
I held the receipts like evidence from a crime scene.
The crime was falling in love quietly.
The evidence was in a kitchen drawer.
She walked in and saw me.
Her face went pale.
Those are private she said.
I said you kept every receipt. She said I kept every moment. The receipts just have the dates.