One moment, her hand was on top of his, in control, on point, on guard; the next, it was beneath his, suppliant, docile, happily kept. She knew it was coming. She'd invited it, in a way. There was an invisible line right smack dab in the middle of the table, and they'd both been very good to keep to their own sides. But no, she couldn't keep well enough alone, couldn't look without touching.
She could have turned her face, jerked back her hand, socked him in the jaw, turned into a bovine deity, or burned down the coffee house, but did she? Nope. She watched him draw closer, kept her eyes on his until his lips were inches from hers, closed them when she felt the warm of his presence, and let him kiss her. That brief touch, the hands of a sinner coming together in prayer for forgiveness, and she could have slipped away from the person she knew, sinking into the person she'd always known she would become.
But just like that, reality was hitting them like a veritable freight train from Shittown. Jerking back against her side of the booth hard enough to make the headboard rattle with a violently whisper, "oh shit," Evan drew her hand to her as if it had been scalded, her feet leaving their perch on the bench to cower under the table, and looked up to his full frame with abject horror in her clear blues. "I ... oh, God." And now he was going to leave? Well, yeah. That was the right thing to do. He'd leave, the she'd leave later, and they'd never talk to each other again. But god damnit, that's not what she wanted ... and in a way, it was. What? This was stupid! She wanted to find a hidey hole in the California dry lands and bury her head in the sand.
Both palms rose to cover her eyes, her head moving to and fro like a dog shaking a recent kill. "I'm sorry, I ... you kissed me, but I did the ... hand thing, and then I let you kiss me so this is ..." Dropping her hands from her eyes in favor of staring at the table, studying the grain like she'd be graded on it, she concluded with a flat, "that was me. And ... you, but I ... I asked you to coffee, so that's another mark against me. My fault. So just, go home and ... go there." A peek to her periphery, the spill of words finally capped off with a final, barely audible, "sorry."