Empty Tables

My black boots clack on the polished tile floor. This restaurant is far too classy for us- two people who can barely make ends meet but this is our farce. I slide in the chair across from him at the table and smile.

“How are you?â€?
“Good,â€? he says and takes a sip of his coffee.
“So, I…”
“It’s okay, Claire, I already know why you asked me to meet you,” he offers and sets his delicate cup onto its saucer. He briefly plays with its gold-trimmed rim before looking up at me. “Your mother called me. It seems she decided on your behalf that I had a right to know.”
I look down and study the neatly hemmed tablecloth. I can’t bear to look him in the eye.
“Claire, I don’t know what you want me to do. I’m not going to consider coming back to you, if that’s what you’d have. As far as I’m concerned, this doesn’t change things between us. You’re on your own, Claire. Please don’t contact me again.”
He stands up and throws a few dollars on the table before hastily marching out the heavy oak doors.
Table for one and a half.

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