The Last Supper at Milano's

Ellen watched Richard's iPhone buzz against the white tablecloth—third time in ten minutes. He didn't even fling that apologetic glance her way anymore. Just tapped the screen, fingers flying, some corporate emergency that always seemed to happen on date night.

'You're going to have spinach in your teeth when you give that presentation tomorrow,' she said, gesturing at his plate.

Richard laughed, but his eyes kept darting back to the glowing screen. 'What?'

'Nothing.' She reached across the table, her fingers finding his hair—it was thinner now, graying at the temples, but still impossibly soft. She used to bury her face in it after sex, breathing him in. 'Just... remember to floss.'

He finally looked at her, really looked at her. 'Ellen, what's going on? You've been weird all night.'

'Am I?' She withdrew her hand, the loss of contact sudden and sharp. 'Maybe I'm just tired of the bull, Richard.'

He set down his phone. 'What bull?'

'This.' She waved at nothing. 'The emergencies. The late nights. The way you've been somewhere else for six months, physically present but mentally miles away.' Her voice cracked. 'I spoke with Sarah today. She told me about the happy hour last Friday.'

Richard went still. The restaurant noise faded to a hum around them. 'Ellan...'

'Don't.' She stood up, clutching her purse. 'I don't want explanations. I just wanted you to look at me one last time.'

His iPhone buzzed again. He didn't answer it. He just watched her walk away, his hand halfway to his mouth, checking his teeth for spinach she'd warned him about. Always too late.