Fine Dining

“How is that?” He asked.

I looked him in the eyes and then back into my plate.

“Fine.”

“Fine?”

“Yes.”

He squeezed cutlery in his fists:

“Fine.”

Golden curtains dripped from the white ceiling. A couple of candles on the red table cloth illuminated presence of guests in the hall. Some of them were brighter than others, some flickerish and the some are ready for change.

The rest of the evening was spend sitting in a silent suite, loudly fighting with resentment in our heads. Dim light of a sunset was laying its last couple of rays through an opened door of a balcony. And like little islands, our opposing beige leather couches where hiding us from shadows.

“Want some?” He invaded the silence by holding out a cigarette.

Exhaled cloud brightened up the room.

“I am sorry. ” I whispered.

He chuckled.

“It’s fine.”

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