"And are you by yourself tonight?" asked the hostess at the restaurant. She was a pretty girl, possibly in her early 20s, and had a slight Russian accent that Clarissa found particularly warm. She paused as her eyes followed a strand of curly hair oscillating back and forth on the girl's temple.
"Table for one, is it?" the girl asked again, pushing back the lock of hair behind her ear. She almost had an apologetic look on her face - as if she was asking Clarissa for forgiveness for distracting her. Their eyes met as Clarissa nodded, and she uttered a definitive "yes."
Surprised by the surety of her answer, Clarissa found her thoughts wandering again. A week ago, all she could muster up was a few uncertain words spoken by a trembling voice to any questions asked, a bandaged hand that felt limp and refused to do any work, and a heart that just wouldn't stop quarreling with her head. She was not the first person in this world getting a divorce. Nor was she the first woman whose husband had been involved with another woman during the course of their marriage. Yet somehow her pain felt different, and her compelling insecurities were driving her in an unfamiliar direction. Clarissa Burton did not desire closure, or revenge for that matter. She just wanted to evaporate off the face of this world.
She sat on the patio, ordered an iced tea and drew out a few papers from her purse. Rummaging through numerous solved sudokus, she finally found what she was looking for: a copy of her resignation. As if on cue, she felt a hand on her shoulder and a familiar, deep baritone voice.
"Clarissa?"
And there he stood.
