YOU ALREADY PAID
By S.D Gould
Grief arrives first.
Of course he does.
He has always known where this ends.
The table is set
for two
though I don’t remember
making a reservation.
Candles flicker,
low,
deliberate.
The kind of light
that lets regret pass for intimacy.
Grief takes the seat
that used to belong
to someone else.
He’s never needed permission.
He just folds himself into the chair
like he’s been rehearsing this
for years.
“You’ve changed,”
he says,
like a memory
trying on my voice.
I pour wine.
My hand doesn’t shake,
yet.
Grief watches the glass fill
like he’s measuring what’s left.
We eat in silence,
a swollen quiet.
He compliments the meal
I didn’t taste.
Says I’ve learned
how to swallow absence.
Says I’ve improved.
I nod,
like this is approval
I’ve been working toward.
At some point
I realise
he hasn’t touched his food.
Just rearranged it.
Cut things smaller.
Made portions
out of what used to be whole.
“Habit,” he says,
catching my eye.
“You’ll learn.”
I think about asking him to leave.
I think about asking him to help me leave.
Instead,
I ask for the bill.
Grief smiles,
patient as a hearse.
“Oh,” he says,
wiping his mouth
with a napkin stained black,
“You already paid.”
My heart
pulses a red chorus
across my eyelids.
His chair
is empty.
The napkin bleeds into the tablecloth.
And my plate
has been moved
slightly closer
to the edge.