I. APPETIZER

They side-sit at a well-lit table. A soft glow escapes the empire shade of the table lamp. The velvet vermilion banquette washes a pink glow over their blank faces. They say nothing as the moules à la normande arrive. He wears a suit jacket and she a one-shoulder dress. Her bouffant hair voluminous, his gelled back and firm. 

“I hate sour cream,” he says.

“It’s mustard crème fraiche,” she replies. “And apple butter toast.” 

“I’d rather soup.” He twirls his clean spoon in the air. 

She’d rather many things. To bathe in a bowl of broth, under dangling noodles, at a ramen-themed onsen in Hakone, Japan. To walk through Bubblegum Alley in San Luis Obispo, where a wall holds 20 meters of chewed, congealed bubblegum. But on this Thursday evening, she’s in New York City with him, on 52nd between Madison and Fifth, eating haute gastronomy that a food critic claimed would change the color of your mood ring. But he's bored. She’s bored. A pre-determined list of food is boring. She looks at his plate, the mussels eaten. Hers remain untouched.    

II. ENTRÉE

The waiter brings the sauteed ris de veau. The glands rest limply on their plates. “I wonder if this is from the heart or stomach.” She says, prodding one. 

“Well, it’s dead now.” He lifts his fork. “So, it doesn’t matter.” 

Nothing does. Nothing matters when he says he’s off to hot yoga but comes back smelling of orange blossom and cream. Nothing matters when he reserves this fucking prix fixe and forgets she’s a vegetarian. Nothing matters when he thrusts into her bi-weekly and comes immediately. It’s great we finish at the same time, he says. Though she never even has the chance to get wet. Her orgasm, when she has one, is a death lament. Who said grief is love with nowhere to go? It doesn’t matter. And nothing matters now, as the sweetbread, blubbery and wet, sits pitifully on her plate. He eats the pancreas within a matter of minutes. 

“I’m ending it with you,” she says. 

He replies immediately, “Do you think the cab is included with the dinner?” 

“It’s over, Peter.” She pats her hair. “I decided last night.” 

“You don’t mean that.” He waves to the waiter to signal for dessert. 

“I don’t want dessert yet.” The table lamp flickers. “You never wait for me to finish anything.” She eyes the naked pancreas on her plate, now beating as if resurrected. 

“You have sex like an only child.”

“I don’t know what that means,” Peter replies, eyeing the dessert on the neighboring table. 

“I’ve made up my mind. After this meal, we’re done.”

“Then why did we come?” He turns to her. “If you knew this before?”  

III. DESSERT

The waiter emerges from the kitchen with a cart of sweets. Two poached meringues swim in a crème anglaise. He turns the corner to reach the banquette, announcing “oeufs à la neige,” floating islands, but no one is there.