Dinner

“Don’t say anything. Let me talk first.”

The candle flickered. Again. Why did it flicker? He felt insulted. Mocked. It was doing an impression of him.

The murmur. He could not stand it. Everyone in the restaurant was murmuring. This was a place for food. Why should there be whispers? This is not a temple. This is not a funeral. This is a place for food. They were murmuring because they were talking about him. He knew it.

The bulge felt heavy. He clutched the pocket of his jacket. He felt the box in it. It was bulging. It was trying to set itself free, he thought. No. No freedom for you. He clutched it harder.

Her eyes shone. He could see the candle flicker in them. He wanted to blow it out. It did not belong in her eyes. Neither did the cutlery. Nor the dishes. Nor the food. He could not see himself. He saw the spoon and fork. Not himself. Stainless steel irony.

The candle in her eyes grew brighter. Bigger. He could not focus on what she was saying. He wanted to listen. Her lips moved. He felt pushed around by their motion. He felt unsteady, dizzy, as he watched her lips move. His ears caught the sound of her voice. He could not understand. Why did she get the first turn to talk? He did not remember. Her voice was drowned by the murmur. Why should there be so much murmur?

The table was gone. The cutlery had vanished. So had the candle. He was glad for that. The candle was gone. At least one of them. She had closed her eyes.
He looked at his watch. The minute hand pointed at him. The second hand did not care. The hour hand was nervous. The minute hand made him nervous. The minute hand knew something the hour hand did not. So it pointed at him. Was it pointing at him? No. It was pointing at his jacket pocket. The bulge.
The candle returned. Flickering. Her eyes, open. The candle gone again. Reappeared, bigger now. She was blinking. Her lips still pushed him around. His ears strained for the sound of her voice. His brain tried to make sense. It felt lost. It was focused, but now it felt lost. It had an agenda. It had to stick to it, no matter what. It was lost.

So soft. His heart beat faster, but he felt pacified. The murmurs started to die down. The flickering was steadying. He felt the warmth on the back of his hand. Her fingers laid themselves against it. Her palm covered his hard knuckles. So soft.
The fingers shifted. They folded. Around his palm. A hug. Her hand gave his hand a hug. His hand did not need the reassurance. Or did it?
He noticed the steadiness. The murmurs had risen. Whispers in his ears, boring into his brain. The voice. Vanished. He was not being pushed around. He was on his chair. He could sit without fear. The lips. Her lips were not moving.
Silence. It was a demon. Its darkness blew the murmurs out. He felt the silence. It wrapped him up. Fog in front of his eyes. It was black. He could barely see her. He had to break through. The minute hand. It was accusing him. Time tried to push it away. He understood. The bulge.

His hand lovingly disengaged itself from the hug. The table was gone again. Her eyes were not closed. Yet, it was gone. It was replaced by a door. Headlights. Beyond the door, they rapidly chased each other. She was standing.
The bulge felt heavy. His hand was clasped around the box now. The minute hand was screaming. He did not understand why it screamed. It knew something. He pulled the box out.

The door bloated up like a balloon. The headlights became planets. A streak of light down her face. Like a jewel. But jewels are not wet.
He saw her eyes focus on the box. It was open. Another jewel. She stared.

“I didn’t know. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. You should’ve told.”

A waft of air. Cold. Fragrant. He could see a chair. It was empty. A streak of light down his face. A worthless jewel. The box was on the table. Still. The jewel in it was confused. The waft of air was quickly gone. The candle flickered. Alone. It really was mocking him, after all.