The usual skirmish at table 7.
She wants to sit in the corner facing out, the better to watch the room, and be seen.
He’s always coveted that seat so that she, with her back to the room, focuses only on him.
As ever, she wins; the price she exacts for losing is more than he’s willing to pay.
Something’s different this evening. I’m catching odd snatches.
…too young perhaps…
…we’ll always be friends…”
A chair scrapes, the door slams.
“It’s done,” he says, smiling wearily as I clear away.
I smile too, covering his hand with mine.
I made my own face-masks this week, and with my customary spatial deficiency, the first one ended up with the elastic loops stitched firmly inside the lining. I’m nothing if not a quick learner though, and I now have four ready to go. If I ever get to go anywhere. Thanks to Rochelle for being an anchor for the Friday Fictioneers in this stormy sea we’re navigating.