Empty Specialties

She dreaded dinner time. She dreaded the dining room all together. It used to be their special place - full of laughter and jokes and  shared looks. They used to have food fights and share dreams, and grins, and stories and the entirety of their day. They used to cover each other in ice-cream out of playful spite, they used to pretend they had children with quirky names, rhyming names, playful names, annoying names. They had whole conversations with empty chairs.  It used to be full of color, the table covered with yellow-pale cloth, set with apple red plates and watermelon green silverware that seemed childish to anyone else. The dining room was summer, even in the coldest  of winters.

         That special place was gone, though, replaced by screaming matches, ten-minute meals, awkward conversations, pursed lips and angry glares. It was followed by an offer to the bed, which would be declined for a place on the couch. It was followed by an attempt at humor - “hey remember that time when…?” - and a wistful smile, but no reply. If there was talk at all, it would be cut off in a second.

         Now, here she was, the clinking of the tools loud as a pin dropping in a silent room. She sneaks a look at him, but he is starring at his plate, eyes a dull and tired brown, which used to be full of stars and twinkles. His skin is sick, and pale and it hurts - so much - to see him in such pain. She imagines sometimes, that she is going to him, hugging him and kissing him and making everything better the way a wife is supposed too. Her heart breaks slowly, every day, into small fractions. It hurts, and she is left mute in that pain.

         Until one day, her lips quiver, until they feel like they’re going to fall off, her eyes red, tears unshed until they feel as though they’re going to break through. Until one day, when she straightens and stares him straight in the eye, even if he isn’t going to look at her. She utters the words she’s been dreading, and she swallows her pride as she speaks those fearful words; “Do you want a divorce?” Each sound is spoken in a sentence all on their own, pauses when they shouldn’t be there, a choking sound at the end of the last word.

         He looks up, so startled and surprised that his fork clatters to the ground. He closes his eyes, takes a wheezing breath and doesn’t reply except to reach into his pocket and place a sheet of paper on the table, at the empty serving plate. She reaches over, hands shaking and unfolds it. Her eyes widen, and she stares at him, her hands clutching the sheet of paper that changes everything.  “What is this?” She asks - demands. His chin quivers, struggles to remain still as he replies, his tone laced with pain; “My Will.”