Leaving The Table

Flash Fiction by Denise McCabe

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For Doug’s birthday, I made his favorite meal, spaghetti with meatballs and spicy Italian sausages, fresh tomato and basil and just a teaspoon of sugar to sweeten the acidity. I cooked it for several hours over slow heat, checking every few minutes and giving the sauce a quick stir with a wooden spoon. When it was time to eat, I drained the pasta, transferred it to individual bowls, and slathered everything generously with sauce, meat and freshly grated parmesan.

We each had a glass of very fine Chianti and too many slices of baguette dipped in olive oil, and could barely move from the table. It was, in his words, a meal to make a Neapolitan weep. He washed the dishes, wiped down the table, and poured us each another glass of wine.

And then he told me he was leaving me. At first, I thought he was kidding. But when I saw the expression on his face, I knew it was no joke.

“Why?” I said.

“I met someone.”

“Who?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does to me.”

He sighed and looked away.

“I met her in Boston.”

“Boston? That was months ago.”

Silence.