There’s a moment. Every night, a moment: the table is set — plate, fork, knife. A wine glass, a water glass. Two settings. The window is open and the smell of pasta sauce lingers in the air.
It’s late. I know it’s late. But I’m always late. This night isn’t any different. Only, it is.
I sit down at my setting and look at the food on the plate. Cold. The wine, red; bottle open, half-empty. The setting across from me has no food, only red stains and pasta streaks. The glass used to have wine in it.
I sigh, knowing.