The plates gleamed under the soft glow of the chandelier. A vase of lilies stood proud at the table’s centre, its petals pristine as if untouched by time. The aroma of spiced roast lingered, mixing with the faint musk of polish on the wooden floor. Her dress clung to her like a memory, the silk brushing against her skin where his touch once lingered.
Her lips, painted a crimson shade, mirrored the anger her eyes had worn the night before. Fingers traced the edge of the tablecloth, clutching and smoothing it, over and over, her feet tapping an uneven rhythm beneath the table. The air thickened, the smell of dinner fading into something colder, less inviting.
The clock ticked. The room held its breath.
The scent of his cologne had dissolved into an abstraction, a trace too faint to follow. The food now sat untouched, as lifeless as the silence draped around her. The clock hands trudged forward. April 21 glowed faintly on the phone screen—perhaps a meeting, perhaps an excuse.
She reached for the wine, its deep red swirling, holding the colour of waiting.
