Last Supper

What aren’t you telling me?

I study you from across the table. Our hands lie inches apart but you couldn’t be further away from me. Your eyes dart around the restaurant. It’s busy for a Monday. I can tell this bothers you. I can tell a lot about you right now but I can’t see the why.

You look to anywhere but me. A family of four sits to your right. You’ve watched them eat for the past three minutes while I talked about my day. You didn’t hear me ask about your own. I look over at the couple sitting next to us. They hold hands under the table, leaning forward so that only they can catch each other’s words. I notice you lean back into your chair, the gap between us widening.

I wait, cautiously optimistic that all this is just in my head, that I’m making something out of nothing. You probably just had a bad day. That’s why you don’t want to talk about it. That’s why your returned smiles are empty of warmth. You’re tired. You don’t want to be out. You want to be home. In bed. With me.

But it was your idea to come here.

You pull your hands into your lap and I watch as you gather your thoughts. I stay quiet, awaiting the inevitable. The check lies paid between us. The night is over. But I feel even more is about to come to a close.

I try to pin-point where it went wrong for you but nothing comes to mind. My heart beats faster as I wait for you to speak. The wheels spin behind your eyes as you try to find your voice. I want to run, to flee from the table and your words which I know will only cause me pain. I look down at my own hands, trying to imagine the warmth of your own where you once held them. When I look up, your eyes are clear. The room closes in around me. You’ve found your strength.

“Joanna, I’m sorry but…”