Short Stories

Love Lost

They sit in silence as she passes the mug from hand to hand. There is nothing left for them to say. They are old, now, and the reality of love's broken nature is worn into their hands, the way that the fingers don't fit anymore.

A couple, two tables over, laughs at a mediocre joke. Two girls kiss and take a selfie while an older man shakes his head in disgust outside. The silence lays over them like a lead blanket.

He opens his mouth, takes a breath. Closes it without speaking, stares down at his empty plate. She turns to the window and fixes her hair for no reason.

An elderly couple walk hand-in-hand, a shining gold ring announcing their marriage. How long? Fifty years, just one? She doesn't know how they did it, how they found love even when love was dead.

They languish in the afternoon light spreading soft butter on the table, on their skin. It paints them with gold and rubies, statues that have long forgotten how to feel. They certainly do not feel for each other, not anymore.

How long were they together? One year, a decade? Time blends, swirling around them in maelstrom where left and right become identical actions, where the only way to win is to lose.

She has a suitcase by the door back home, and a cardboard box sitting in her car. He has the house.

Three friends stride by with loaded shopping bags, talking and laughing. They hold each other together by hooking their elbows in a chain, an unbreaking bond with roots in the metaphorical, the metaphysical. If he held one like them, would they still be together? Would they still be in love? Or would it just kill them both, wild birds with hearts too strong for a cage?

The waiter rests the check on the table, and it mocks them. A single check, because they never split. They shared their money. The funds for a vacation to Europe sit in a jar, collecting dust. Three dollars and seven cents; a dream dead like everything else they shared.

He pays. She closes her eyes and remembers how they first met.

He leaves before she does. She remains there for a long, long time.

But she has a suitcase by the door and a box in her car.

They sit in silence, an empty plate and half-empty mug of coffee. It is cold now, and the late afternoon light turns the table almost gold.

A waitress without a tip cleans the table up, and curses the couple that sat there before. She envies their love, that they don't have to fill up the silence with meaningless noise and baseless small talk. Maybe that comes in time, or maybe it is just two people fitting correctly.

A car drives away, smoke flying into the air. She doesn't know where she'll go; she just knows that she must. He watches her go, and wonders how he is supposed to fill up the house by himself.