I imagined she had an important meeting, the black dress suit that wrapped possessively around her curves, added to her allure. She always said, that this outfit gave her extra confidence to succeed in a men dominated industry. Or maybe she needed the extra confidence after last night. She oozed don’t-you-fucking-dare-to-mess-with-me-today.

She was a beautiful woman, stunning, without compare, but when she was pregnant, her radiant glow had mesmerized me even more. Every movement she had made had seemed to carry an air of grace and strength, a testament to the incredible journey her body was undertaking. Her laughter had resonated in my heart. I had watched her with awe and wonder, marveling at the miracle unfolding within her. I had traced the contours of her profile with my eyes, committing every nuance to memory – the way her blonde hair cascaded gently over her shoulders, the subtle smile that played on her lips, and the gentle sway of her movements as her hand had instinctively rested on her belly.

I blinked my eyes and watched out of the window. Down the street, a truck honked and stopped. The waste collector walked to the garbage bins and took a full one, to carry it to the truck.

I rose from my seat. Over at the bar, Tina toyed with a sugar bag, her actions a deliberate distraction from my impending approach. Her eyes, adorned with smoky eyeshadow, expertly concealed any initial reaction.

’We need to talk about last night,’ I said, my voice a hushed plea.

Her response was immediate. ’You don’t get it, do you? I can’t talk about it.’ Her lip quivered as she bit it, her bloodshot eyes narrowing. She leaned in, her words slipping through clenched teeth. ’But if you’re hell-bent on discussing a divorce, well, then go ahead and schedule an appointment through Claudia.’

My heart ached at the suggestion, a pang of longing for the life we had together. ’I don’t want a divorce. I want our life back.’

With a resigned air, Tina crushed the empty sugar bag, its remnants falling to the saucer with a soft rustle. Our gazes locked, a silent conversation passing between us as she retrieved her coat and slung her laptop bag over her shoulder. Holding her purse tightly, she exchanged a wave with Paul and then turned to me. She stared me down. ’Last night, I kissed you, and what did you do, hm?’ Her words dripped with frustration, accentuated by her ever-intensifying Southern drawl. ’God damn, Bette. That’s not how you pick up the pieces.” Her accent, like molasses, thickened when her anger flared