Shoe Gaze
You can taste the salt in her sweat from across the table. A strong scent. Not necessarily unpleasant. The humidity renders the vein on her forehead more prominent; a reminder of a past that has become a lie. She looks straight at you, holding her tumbler with three fingers, slowly turning it as if there was any ice left. Her smile is the coldest thing in the room. You avoid her gaze by looking down. She is not capable of remorse or shame, so you feel them for her.
So, she asks, what now?
I need to clean my shoes, you reply, I'll go into the kitchen for that. When I come back I hope that the room will be physically so barren as it has felt for the last two years.