It was two years ago last month that they shared dinner at the Italian joint in Bar Harbor. It was the week before Christmas, and the wind blowing in off the water was fucking freezing. Still, they bundled up and spent two or three days walking through town, along the cobblestone wharf, popping into boutiques and consignment shops, and enjoying the local fares.

It was already dark when they saw the cozy, dimly lit space through the large front windows. The place was full, families and couples enjoying atmospheric dinners together, and the restaurant couldn’t have felt warmer and more inviting than it did in contrast to the cutting cold. When they entered, they discovered a piano crammed up along the exposed brick wall. A female vocalist was singing soft jazz standards, accompanied by a thin, white-haired man with a slightly casual appearance yet exceedingly professional touch at the keys. There happened to be a table available, and they sat across from one another tucked away in the back corner next to the kitchen entrance. She looked happy.

“How is it?” she asked.

The sound of her voice snapped him back into reality. “Fine… It’s good,” he said, meeting her eyes with an expressionless gaze. She smiled, seemingly satisfied with his reply, and looked back down at her plate. She prodded her fork into a bit of rice, used the tines to flake off some fish, and drug the mixture through the balsamic glaze. She took a bite and chewed thoughtfully.

They were seated adjacent from one another at the oval wooden table, which they’d taken from her old apartment when they moved into their flat. It had always been like this, he thought, the two of them sharing quiet meals together. They had instantly found a kind of domestic flow with one another, and often spent their evenings listening to music and engaging in a kind of intimate dance in the small kitchen. He’d slip behind her to the sink, run his hand along the small of her back, reach around her to an overhead cupboard. She’d stack produce from the fridge next to him while he manned the cutting board, perhaps moving in now and again to touch his arm. With one hand left on the celery and the other palming the comfortably weighted chef’s knife, he’d turn his head to kiss her, lingering there a moment against her lips with eyes closed. He was sensitive, but assertive. She liked that.

“What have you been reading lately?” she asked.

He sat silently for a moment before answering.

“A book I started a while back,” he said. He took a pause. “I want to finish it and add it to the list before I move on.”

“What’s it about?”

“A kid that’s going to die.”

Seemingly unfazed, she looked at him with a neutral, if not downright pleasant look on her face. “Mm,” she said, reaching for her wine glass. She brought it to her lips and took a sip, holding the glass by the stem, and when she set it back on the cloth placemat, he watched out the corner of his eye as the liquid sloshed back and forth in the delicate bowl. He noticed the slow turn of the ceiling fan reflected in the glass curvature, the flicker of candlelight.

She was heavier now, that was true, almost spilling out of herself in places. And she seemed tired, older. He wondered if he looked the same. He must, he thought. How couldn’t he? But it was still there. The enticing softness of her arms and shoulders, the thought of running his hand along the smooth, freckled skin, grabbing her by the hair and pulling her head back to expose the nape of her neck. He turned his eyes back down to the fish. It was dead.

The cat came up from under the table and rubbed along his leg, arching its back and purring. He liked the cat, but nudged it away with his foot, and as he did, she looked over at him and smiled again. She looked happy. She always looked so goddamn happy. And he hated her for it.

“What’s wrong, babe? Don’t you like it?”

“Oh, yeah, I was just thinking about something.”

“What is it?”

“Nothing really, just something from work today. We got a new client, that’s all.”

She looked at him again, somehow unperturbed by his performance, and returned to her dinner plate. The ball was in his court. He knew that. She’s the one that put it there. He took a deep breath through the nose and extended the exhalation, silently expelling it as he looked across the room. He didn’t need it: the apartment, the furniture, the creature comforts; her coming to him and kissing him on the lips and I love yous, the burning in his guts that kept him up at night. None of it. Probably never had. And as far as he could tell, he only had one card left to play, but that would only hurt them, not her. Certainly not him.

“Should we get started on the dishes?”

“No,” he said. “Let’s go upstairs.”

She held his blank stare for a moment and then looked down, staring into the swirling disk, deep and red and wild, as she worked the clear glass between her fingers and smiled.

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