As she entered the restaurant he was surprised to see her. He felt guilty that he’d been caught on a date with another woman, especially one he didn’t fancy. He feared his marriage could be over.
As she entered the restaurant, pain prickled behind his eyes like a thousand tiny needles. What was she doing here? She was supposed to be miles away, tied up in meetings, entertaining clients; not sweeping, refined and elegant, through the sort of scruffy bistro they would never visit together, to catch him with his pants down. Or as good as.
As the wrecking ball of his betrayal surged towards him, the woman across the table – what was her name? – yabbered on and on like a drumming bunny, blistering his ears. He could see the chewed food between her teeth as she talked and her knife and fork screeched against the cheap crockery like fingernails on a chalkboard. She wasn’t pretty or chic. There was no subtlety in the satin bow that peeked out between grotesquely inflated breasts, nor the scrape of her grimy toes probing and poking at his ankles beneath the table. He realised he neither wanted nor needed the sex that was palpably on offer.
He pleaded with the napkin on his lap for inspiration; he needed a credible explanation. What possible reason could he have for being seated at a table dressed with a paper sheet and a dribbling candle in a bottle, with a woman whose name he couldn’t even recall? All the while, his wife, his beautiful, intelligent, sophisticated wife, glided towards them, her eyes wide, lips taut, the hint of blood flaming across her décolletage.
His heart rattled beneath his breastbone. This time there was no wriggling out of it. The demise of his marriage was knocking on the door.
“Don’t tell me the moon is shining, show me the glint of light on broken glass” Anton Chekhov