“It’s not you, it’s me.” Eyes downcast, he shifted the sauce bottle closer to the oil dispenser.
She stared fixedly at the tablecloth. Her instincts had signaled this moment for weeks, but now it had arrived, she felt detached. Clinical in fact.
She picked up the pepper pot, placing it beside the salt cellar; she’d be gracious about this.
“People change,” she murmured, “I understand.”
“You’ll always be my soul mate,” he said, earnestly, pressing her fingers to his lips.
“There’s just one thing,” she said, “something I need from you.”
“Just name it, love.”
“Two month’s rent.”
Did I really say that…?
Apparently shocked, he sat back, reaching for his wallet.
“If you’re going to be like that… ”
He slapped eight fifty-pound notes on the tablecloth.
“That do you?” he snapped.
She folded them into her bra.
“You can let me have the other half later, if you like.”
He rose, upsetting the wineglasses.
“Dream on, babe.”
As he left, the waiter approached, handing her a 24-inch pepper mill, with a raised eyebrow.
Her aim, like her instinct, was impeccable.
No good raking over the ashes, she thought later, embracing the waiter by the blazing chiminea.
Sunday Photo Fiction invites 200 word submissions. You’d think after five years of producing 100 word stories, having double that number to get a story across would present no problem. Not so. Yet again, I spent more time editing than actually writing the story. 😦