Waterlillies, a romance

At the art gallery, they held hands.

He knew she was for him when she said she liked the waxed, buffed cement floors more than she liked the art.

It wasn't clear whether she was Republican or Democrat.

Neither of them liked themselves, but they liked each other.

At lunch, she was able to continue the conversation while eating French onion soup, a feat he'd hitherto thought impossible.

Over time, she became someone he'd leave the front door open for.

Living life all over again, neither of them would be romantic. Instead they'd live without fear or anger in a small house of their own design.