It had been about a year since word had gone out that your coworker’s husband Nolan had died. You remember Debbie being shattered- though she barely spoke about it, and she hadn’t been like herself in so long, always looking miserable during work hours. You did chauffer her around once or twice a week, after work, which allowed you to be her shoulder to cry on, after being kicked out of a support group for no apparent reason.

She seemed to come to terms with her grief, though- and you decided to shoot your shot one friday, asking her out through stutters.

Debbie’s face softens as she steps out of the car- you had just driven her back home. She looked amazing in the golden dusk light, too. “..Sure. How does Thursday sound?”