On the evening before their divorce became final, Andy arrived at the restaurant a little before
six.
He had spent an unreasonable amount of time deciding what to wear. He eventually settled on a
clean shirt and trousers, then changed the shirt because it seemed too formal, then changed it
again because the second one looked as though he had given up.
At forty-five, he found himself behaving like a teenager preparing for a date.
There was something humiliating about it.
There was also something hopeful.
The server led him to a table near the window. Andy sat down and looked at the empty chair
opposite him.
"Will someone be joining you?" the server asked.
"Yes," Andy said.
Then, because he wasn't entirely certain, he added,
"I think so."
The server nodded and left him with a menu.
At six o'clock, Andy checked his phone.
No message.
At six twenty, he checked again.
Still nothing.
He considered sending Ben a text, but he didn't know what he would say. Are you coming?
sounded needy. I hope you're coming sounded worse. I know you said you wouldn't come, but
I'm still here seemed to summarize the situation a little too accurately.
So he put the phone away.
People around him ordered dinner. Couples laughed. A family shared several dishes and passed plates around the table. At the next table, someone told a story that made the entire group burst into laughter.
Andy tried not to listen.
He looked at the entrance whenever the door opened.Every time, it was someone else.
At seven, the server approached him.
"Would you like to order something?"
Andy looked at the empty chair.
He could order dinner. He could sit there and eat alone, which would probably be perfectly
reasonable. People ate alone all the time. There was nothing inherently tragic about a man
having dinner by himself.
But this wasn't really about dinner.
"Just a little longer, please."
The server nodded.
Andy took out his phone and opened his conversation with Ben.
Their last exchange was still there.
Goodnight, Andy.
Goodnight, Ben.
Andy typed a message asking whether he was coming.
He stared at it for several seconds before deleting it.
There was a limit to how many times you could ask someone to choose you before the question
became an answer in itself.
He put the phone away.
Another fifteen minutes passed.
Then another.
Finally, Andy stood, gathered his things, and looked at the empty chair one last time.
"Well," he murmured.
"At least I tried."
It was a small sentence. Almost nothing.
But it was all he had.
He walked out of the restaurant and into the evening air.For a moment, he stood on the sidewalk, looking at the window. He could see people inside,
eating and talking and enjoying their lives. Somewhere behind the glass, his table remained
empty.
Andy turned and walked away.
He did not call Ben.
He did not send a message.
He did not look back.
It wasn't that he had stopped loving him. Feelings did not obey instructions, however much we might wish they would. Andy still loved Ben, and he suspected that some part of him would continue doing so for a long time.
For the first time in weeks, he had stopped asking Ben to come back.
It wasn't much.
It was something.