“What shall we toast to?” he asks through a small grin. He looks ten years younger, more like his age of thirty-four, when he smiles like that, and my mind starts to go a little sideways. I unconsciously move closer to the table as I wonder if I could ever see him as more than a friend despite my initial uncertainty.

“To us,” I say, “and to our antisocial comrades throughout the world.”

“Poetry if I’ve ever heard it.”

We tap our glasses together and savor our first sips. Much as I’ve tried to enjoy red wine since I’ve been here, I’ll always prefer white. I’m glad Liam concurs.

Setting my glass down in front of me, I wait a very appropriate ten seconds before I begin my assault on the bread basket in the middle of the table. The bread is toasted to perfection and drizzled in olive oil, and Liam soon snags a piece for himself. He knows the deal. Our best conversations always require devouring carbs.

“Do you consider us good friends?” I soon hear myself ask.

Liam appreciates blunt questions and chuckles mid-chew.

“I do. Not many people can manage to put up with me on such a regular basis. Our companionship is quite the phenomenon.” He takes a sip of wine and leans back in his chair. “Why? Do you consider me a good friend?”

I take a sip of my wine as well, answering his question with my glass still in my hand. “I do. I like how nothing is forced with us. We don’t talk if we don’t want to and we only see each other every day because we feel like it. It would be easy for us to ditch each other. I think it’s nice that neither of us wants to yet.”

“Neither of us wants to yet? Does that mean you may potentially be ditching me in the near future?”

I smile and shrug as I take another sip. “Who knows? You’ll just have to stick to your A-game to keep me enthralled.”

“I’ll do that,” he says, drinking more of his wine as well.

Two glasses each later, our food arrives and the timing couldn’t be better. I’m beginning to feel loopy and some sustenance is needed. We dig into our meals and it takes a minute or so for either of us to come up for air.

“You’ve been here for about a month, haven’t you?” he asks. I nod and take another bite. “Do you ever miss home?”

“Sometimes, but I try not to think about it.”

“How do you not think about it?”

I rest my fork down in my bowl and scoot around a bit in my seat. “I try to keep occupied. I cook or watch a movie or write.”