He traces the raised outline of the tattoo from under his shirt.  It still ached.  And itched, now starting to scab.  Her wine hasn’t stayed full.  He doesn’t tell her he dropped his fork on the floor.  Replaced it with hers while she went to the bar.  She enjoys her rigatoni and doesn’t seem to mind.  Why spoil it?  He downs his water.  Lemon was a nice touch.  He eyes the waiter.  Thanks him, with a wink.  “…tomorrow at seven.  So I need to be up at five.”  He raises his eyebrows, “sucks.”

She pauses, finishes chewing.  “You’re going to get germs in it.”  He takes his hand out from under his sleeve.  She picks around the pasta.  “Every piece is the same.  It’s pasta.  What are you looking for in there?”  She says nothing.  Pokes around more.  Finds her perfect piece.  Watches him as she chews it.  No expression.  It is all inside.  He is inside there too.  He knows what is kicking around.  Waits for it.  Waits for it.  It’ll come… “What’d they charge?”  There it is.  “Your pasta.  My steak.  That wine.”  “Good.  So I’m covering this.” “You’re idea.” “Thought it would be nice.” “Still thinking that?”  She pauses.

“You say hurtful things.  You probably don’t even realize they are hurtful when you say them.” “I’m trapped either way I answer.” “I’m not trapping.  I’m factting…” she quickly corrects, “stating a fact.” “I like factting. I’m factting now. You’ve had three glasses of wine here. Two before we left. Five glasses of wine.” “I’m not the one with the problem.” He looks away.  She sees him as he looks back quickly.  Trying to hide.  He picks up his water.  “You say hurtful things.  You probably don’t even realize they are hurtful when you say them.” “I’m just factting.”

“What if I said, now, I don’t want to be married to you anymore.” She stays cool.  Keeps poking around her pasta.  “I wouldn’t know what to say.  How can you just react to that?” “So you wouldn’t say anything?” “Would you say it to begin with?” “I said it. What do you say?” “I don’t like this game anymore.” “It’s hard a fact.” She sets her fork against the plate. Shaken.  Fights to hide it. “Stop it now.” “What?” “The witty banter. Who are you? Fucking Hemingway?” “He was never one for wit. More Wilde.” “He liked fucking boys.” “Yeah. Hemingway never liked that.”

She searches through her pasta.  He waits.  His hand finds its way up his shirtsleeve again. “Why would you say that?” He plays his fork around his plate. “I didn’t mean it.”  He waits.  She picks up her wine glass.  Ignores his glare, even though he’s not watching.  She knows he is.  “You think I’d never do that.  End this.” “It’s not in you. You care too much.  About people. You’re aware.” “You told me that before.” He smiles. “Don’t pretend you remember.  You never remember.” He smiles, but he knows she’s right.  He doesn’t remember.  “I meant it.” “You never said it.” “I just told you.” “It’s the wrong context.” “Still said it.” “Eat your steak.” “I’m not hungry.” “Then eat that fucking tattoo on your arm.”

With that, she’s up.  To the bar.  He watches her.  Standing quietly at the bar. Composed.  Withering beneath. He looks at his shirt.  He has unknowingly lifted a scab.  Blood feathers through. Absorbing his sleeve.  He takes his coat.  She watches him from the bar.  He doesn’t push in his chair.  She knows he did it on purpose.  It always bothers her. That no one has manners anymore.

He watched her walk away in silence. He wanted to stop her but he didn’t know why. He knew that she wouldn’t turn around and come back to him. She’d said what she had to say. There was nothing left whatsoever. And he wasn’t sure that he had the courage to hear anything else after that.

He looked down at the table he was sitting at and saw the tea cups that the waitress had placed before them an hour ago. They stood there untouched and forgotten. He’d ordered before she’d come, so he had no idea he’d be sitting there all by himself.

Thank god he’d ordered just one plate of croissant. Atleast that wouldn’t go to waste.

He picked it up and the once moist bread crumbled between his fingers.

Perfect. Even the bread was a metaphor to his life that had crumbled as she’d sat in front of him, sobbing.

Why had she cried, though? If any one had to cry it should’ve been him. He was the one sitting alone at this stupid restaurant getting sympathetic looks from the couples seated at nearby tables.

But even the looks or the tears couldn’t put the pieces together. It still hadn’t registered in his head. He wasn’t ready to believe it. She was gone? Did she leave him or had he dumped her?

There was one sentence she’d kept saying over and over again in her speech that hadn’t made much sense. “It didn’t mean anything.”

What didn’t mean anything? Their three year relationship? Or the fact that she had slept with another guy?

It was somebody from her class, she’d said. Stupid college crowd. He should’ve known better than to date a girl seven years his junior. She was still a kid. This was what kids of her age do. They fool around and don’t need to settle down.

For him, he’d known that she was the one from the day he’d met her. He’d seen her dancing at his best friend’s wedding. He was so in love with her even after all these years. She had been too.

So then what happened? How did she suddenly feel like she needed a change? Something different, new and exciting? Was she lonely when he’d gone away for business for that entire one year? Had that guy comforted her when she was feeling low?

“It didn’t mean anything.”

Then why had she done it, dammit?!

He absent mindedly toyed with the little pink flowers in the china vase.

He’d decided to meet her today because he’d wanted to ask her something important. He’d wanted to ask her to marry him. He wanted to spend the rest of his life with her.

But they’d never gotten to that part. Oh hell. Now she’d never know.

She’d walked into the restaurant and it seemed as if the whole world around them had ceased to exist. As though they were the only ones there. She’d looked beautiful as always. He’d always thought that he was lucky to find her.

As he’d been talking about his day, she’d seemed a little preoccupied. But he hadn’t given it a thought.

When he’d reached for her hand across the table, she’d suddenly burst into tears.

He was taken aback. Before he could ask her what was wrong she’d started mumbling something about some friend in college. He’d tried to make sense of what she was saying. She must’ve said a lot of things in that one hour. But all he’d heard and understood was that she’d slept with her friend and that “it didn’t mean anything.”

So now what? She was going to be with that guy? And he was supposed to forget about her after this? It was over? Had she stopped loving him? Was he supposed to stop too?

He looked down at the flowers he was playing with. Plum blossoms, he recognized.

On one of their first dates she’d taken him to an art exhibition in her college and she’d fallen in love with a painting of plum blossoms. They were a beautiful pink, and filled the canvas like tiny spots of heaven. She’d told him that someday, they’d go to a place that was filled with pretty flowers like these.

That day had not come. And it never will. With a sudden rush of anger, he felt like crushing the flowers until each petal was beyond recognition. He wanted to destroy everything beautiful and romantic and everything that reminded him of her. He felt like flinging the vase at her.

But she was gone. And he’d probably never see her again.

Just then a waitress came up to him and asked, “Is your friend coming back, sir?”

She wanted to take away the extra cup maybe.

He simply shook his head.

“So it’s just you then?” she asked.

“Yes. Just me,” he replied and he watched silently as the waitress quietly cleared the table and with it, took away all the memories.