Yes.

The sea scallops wouldn't caramelize.

The cajun catfish tasted a little soapy.

The potatoes were buttery and a bit overdone and delicious, the asparagus perhaps a little undercooked, the salad was fresh and vinegary. The baked camembert completely lost its shape when I took the wooden rings away.

The roses were beautiful.

The cherry Belgian beer tasted like the best fruit punch I've ever had.

His shirt was a blue jean button down. Snap buttons.

I wasn't wearing tights or panties.

The melted chocolate was lovely with the granny smith apple.

The lavender candle burned and melted all crooked.

Elliott Smith played after Bright Eyes. Bright Eyes did not fit the mood.

We were full and laughing about the fish and the sad way the camembert had spread across the pan, and he said, "If we cook enough meals, some of them aren't going to work out. But I'm not bummed out about the fish." And suddenly, I saw our future. For an instant. A girl does this. She time travels. She is transported. As much as I love being in the moment, I imagined all the meals we would cook. Steak. And fish. And pasta. And stews. And cookies. And salads. And sauteed vegetables. And tarts. And chicken. And casseroles. And cakes. With beer and wine and tea and hot chocolate. And orange juice and sparkling water.

We went over to the couch and stared at each other and kissed briefly. He touched my chin, my neck, and cocked his head to the side, and he licked his lips and parted them for a moment like he was about to say something. And then he shut his mouth. And then he inhaled. And he leaned over and for the first time, into my ear, like I had done with him, he whispered, "I love you, too."

And I believed him. And I knew he did.