The Anniversary Dinner

Maggie smoothed the tablecloth, her palms sweating against the linen. Seven years tonight, and she still couldn't predict which version of David would walk through the door. The waiter had just brought her a glass of orange juice—she'd stopped drinking after David's second DUI, though he'd never acknowledged why.

The restaurant's signature spinach lasagna sat untouched before her. She'd ordered it because David used to love it, back when he still remembered what she loved too. Now his phone would buzz more often than he spoke to her.

She watched a fox dart through the restaurant's garden outside—lean, quick, headed somewhere purposeful. Once, she'd been like that. Now she just bore it, day after day, the weight of their shared history pressing down until she could barely breathe.

David appeared at the table, smelling of expensive cologne and someone else's perfume—not even trying to hide it anymore. He sat without kissing her, without meeting her eyes.

'You ordered the lasagna,' he said.

'It's our anniversary, David.'

'Is it?' He checked his watch, already looking past her shoulder. 'Right. Happy anniversary, Maggie.'

The fox slipped back into the shadows outside. Something in her finally decided to follow its lead.

She stood up, left her purse on the chair, and walked out into the cool evening air. The bear inside her—that heavy, patient thing that had endured everything for seven years—had finally stopped holding its breath.