Chocolate Mousse

I never cry, which is my way of punishing myself.

The restaurant is one we always go to, and the food isn’t particularly good, but the head waiter is nice, and he always recognises us. It’s familiar and it’s comforting, and I always order the same thing.

Tonight I’ve lost my appetite and I just feel sick. I’m not reading the menu, but I have it in front of me - it’s between me and her, and it’s stopping my hands from shaking.

She told me before we arrived, and I haven’t really had time to adjust to the news. I think I knew what she was going to say before she opened her mouth – her expression said it all.

“We need to talk.” She said.

It was a shock, and I wasn’t prepared.

I’ve had this conversation a few times over the years and I’ve always known when it was coming.

Tonight is different.

My head is pounding, and I’m finding it hard to breathe. I can hear my heart beating in panic over the clink of glasses and the whispers and polite laughter of the customers - their knives screeching on the porcelain plates as they dissect their chicken Kiev and slice through the potato gratin. The back of my shirt against the chair is wet through from sweat, and my ears are ringing. And all I can think of is that I’ve done nothing wrong and this shouldn’t be happening to me.

“Can I take your order, Sir?”

“We’ll have the usual.” I say.

We eat our main course in silence, and I push the food around my plate - each morsel is rubber in my mouth. I want to reach over and hold her hand but I know it’s not what she wants anymore.

“So? You must feel the same way? What do you think?” She says.

Please hold my hand, I think.

“I think I’ll try the chocolate mousse.” I say.