There's a café tucked at the end of Spring Street where they like to meet when she's in town and the boys leave them behind for a day at the beach. They are too old or too female--or, they like to theorize with no small amount of playful pride, too revered.

Cate will eat lemon cake and Ian the mud pie he assures her is the best in the world (and he's been everywhere so his opinion counts for something). She tips the bottle upside-down and shakes the last drops of wine into his glass. The terrace is full of happy people who don't care and Cate grins at him like a kid and squints behind her sunglasses. His sneakered foot rests warmly against her sandal under the table.

"Never?"

"Well, no. Just... not anymore. And not for a long while now."

Cate hums pensively and presses a fingertip into the crumbs in her plate, sampling them absently. Ian imagines, for a moment, what it would be like to taste that delicate, decidedly womanly finger against his lips.

"Catherine."

Her attention shifts back from the busy street to him, her smile easy and as sunny as the afternoon. He leans across the miniscule table--practically the size of a dinner plate, really--and closes his eyes for a moment to taste yellow sun and pink lipstick. A pleased little squeal puffs on her tongue and the tip of her tongue touches his before they part, unsure of whom had pulled back first.

The tilt of Cate's head is intrigued and perhaps a little amused; Ian clears his throat purposely and hides his surprised smirk behind his glass. The wine they've been drinking all afternoon tastes different, tainted with summer and lemon.

"Perhaps I don't know what I'm missing," he concedes with a wink and a bump of his shoe against hers.