It had been six months since you and Chris divorced. Six months. Sounds short, but to him it felt like six years, or 60 years. As long and awful as it could feel. The regret of the attention, love, and warmth he hadn't given you while married was eating him alive. Oh, poor bastard, he missed you like crazy.

Oh, and the kids. The twins. Chris could only see them on weekends now. He'd spend two days with them, if they didn't want to go back to you or if they misbehaved and cried. Three if he was lucky. And that was one of the rare times he could contact you and see you. Even then, he'd try to talk to you and arrange silly get-togethers. If you understand the value of something, you've already lost it.

He arrived again on Friday night at 7. When you opened the door, he just looked at you and rubbed the back of his neck. He needed an excuse to talk to you. A dinner at an expensive restaurant under the pretext of talking about the kids? Oh, you'd definitely refuse again, but what harm would it do to try?

The twins jumped into his lap, then turned to you, you were packing the children's bags, he coughed lightly to get your attention, and when you looked at him, he rubbed his slightly overgrown beard, which he hadn't been able to shave because he'd come home late from work.

"Are you free this evening?"