The hostess led us to a tiny

table between two larger tables where diners were already seated.

Maybe people always want the

window ­ she didn't ask us ­ but we both felt a moment of resentment

to be placed so close to others when there were empty tables in the center

of the room.

The gardens were fading with

the twilight anyway. Pink camellias pressed against the glass would soon

be our only view from the candlelit restaurant. It might have been more

romantic were we not actually closer to our neighbors than to each other.

I wriggled to make enough space

for myself, and Dave shifted his chair until the man behind him moved

to give him room. I suspected I'd hear more conversation by eavesdropping

on the couple inches behind me, when I realized I had not heard them say

a word.

Our waitress introduced herself

as Connie and told us about the evening's special, then turned to the

couple behind me while we decided. As I was considering our rather expensive

options, Dave leaned toward me and said quietly, "The people behind

you are signing. Our waitress is too."

I didn't want to turn to stare,

so depended on Dave's description. They were middle-aged, she blonde,

he dark and of Indian or some other Middle-eastern origin. They were communicating

strictly with sign, but even Dave could read the affection between them,

he said later. The woman smiled at her companion, he smiled back, they

touched hands, and once he laughed rather loudly.

Their circumstances softened

our resentment, and we accepted some of the romance they exuded. Dinner

was wonderful, from a creamy she-crab soup to crisp salads to fried oysters

and the special, mahi-mahi and potatoes au gratin.

The walk