Not too many days left here. Other work picking up enough now. Enough for me to starve elsewhere same as here. But somewhere else is looking better now.
I told you that the other day, over lunch, staring over our spring salads cozily tossed over delicate sky blue rimmed plates dotted with balsamic splashes. Your eyes–barely hiding blood-shod heart hiding in muddy boots–stoned menace into radicchio and leeks.
My own intrepid gaze, blazed red into radish rounds and scallions. We could hardly speak, abjuring conversation for the death of leaves, lies, us…
“Can I bring you anything else? Dessert?”
Each of us nodded to her, looking to her while acknowledging the thud of silence on the table that dared us not peek into each other’s musing.
“I’m okay, thank you.”
You just smiled in assent. She curtly nodded and turned her heels to walk away.
Your head rose suddenly, alarm flooding your pupils, readying…
“I can’t work there any more. It’s too…just too… I’ve outgrown the place, nothing left there for me. I’m past the insecurity and fear of not finding another job. I need to strike out.”
Noticeably relieved, despite your impassive gaze, you waited for me to say more.
But I didn’t.