Dinner For Two

I thought I knew what it felt like to see enchantment that night. Enchanted; most people recognize the feeling, but that evening I actually glimpsed it, saw a vision of its magical wings envelope my world for a fraction of time. The world, with its normalcy, was behind me, suspended, and I was immortal in enchantment.
I could swear your face was glowing with excitement; perhaps though, it was only the result of a hundred candles burning in the darkness around where we sat. We sat, alone, at a table isolated at the edge of the waterfront. You had moved the table there during the day, amidst the noise and commotion of the marina, while the boats and seedos incessantly backed into the water, only to emerge again hours later; in and out, in and out, much like the waves that gently lapped against the dock now, completing the calm stillness of that night. At the time, I thought you had to be the most creative person I had ever met. Perhaps, I was just too easily impressed.
You brought take-out, explaining shyly how you were just horrible at cooking, that you would have if you could, but this was the best you could do. I laughed and told you I would not want it any other way, and you smiled and poured two glasses of crimson wine into delicate glasses where it sparkled with the stars.
This is what dinner for two should be, I remembered thinking. All alone, with the glittering magic of the night, the moon, the stars, the candles, silvery, silent, consumed.
It’s funny how you remember certain details after a fact, when they seemed so insignificant at the time; mere background decors, barely noticeable. Eventually they become emblems, symbols that you wish you had seen, sort of overlooked signs.
I remember we both noticed the lighthouse in the distance, glaring its golden light in a single streak across the dark water miles away. It stayed on almost the whole evening, watching us, until it abruptly, unexpectedly, flickered twice and went out. I never imagined you and I could fade as suddenly as that light.