Wine and Tears

“You don’t love me anymore,” she said flatly. She shifted her weight and swung her right leg smoothly to rest over her left, dislodging a few strands of hair from her neat head.  Automatically her fingers swept them deftly back into place. “There is nothing more to say,” she added. It was a lie. Nothing more to say—it couldn’t have been farther from the truth. Too long nothing became everything. Too long had become…too long.
With one last gesture, she spread the deep red lipstick evenly over her lips and tossed the stick into a small purse, which she closed with a click. “It ends tonight,” she said, almost reassuringly. With another click, she was outside her apartment, the lines practiced in her mirror running through her head. You don’t love me anymore. It’s too late. There is nothing…nothing more to say.
Her taxi arrived at the door of some small, obscure French place, the hell with trying to even pronounce it. She stepped inside. Her black heels clicked with the trace of an echo much like the click of her apartment’s lock. Her dress, however, seemed contrary to the finality of those previous clicks, and seemed to promise so much more. The way the hem danced around just above her knees and the fabric traced the curves of her hips, clinging to her thin waist and finally blossoming at her bosom. But her neck lay bare. It ends tonight.
She spotted him; he waved her over with two fingers—fingers that once traced her very outline made by that smart black dress. He smiled at the thought; she couldn’t help but return the gesture. Automatic. You don’t. Too late. She took a seat. Looking into his eyes, they seemed distant, distracted. Or was it just the lighting?
“Wine?”
“Yes, thank you.” She took it in one hand, the lip of the glass slowly pressing into her own. She stared at him through a sideways glance, her eyes betraying her smile. His firm hands seemed unsure this night, his own glass shaking within them. Odd. Her glass returned to the table silently. Nervous, dear? She laughed silently at the thought. Too late. It ends tonight. His hand fumbles. Too late. Too, too late.
Red wine gushes out of the glass and onto the table, the red stain against the ivory table cloth growing by the second. Too much. Too soon. Too late. It spills over the edge and is lost within the black of her dress. As she rises, a small gasp escapes her lips, lips stained red to match the lost wine.
He grabs a cloth to help soak up the stain but she takes a step back. You don’t love me anymore. Enough with your sad gestures, your fake smile, your empty attempts to “be there.” Too late.
Tears.
Tears are running down her face, leaving salty drops even wetter than the wine in small patches on her dress with trails of mascara to match. Why now? Too automatic. You, too. Love me. Too late. She crumples into her seat, overwhelmed. “I can’t do this anymore.”
Memories. They flash before her like a slideshow on crack. Meetings. Smiles. Love. Sadness. Passion. Nothing. Too late. You don’t love me anymore. Neglect.
Neglected. “I’ve come to feel neglected.” She started, her own voice shaking her from the memories. He took her hands in his, but now they were firm, they were warm and strong and reassuring. She noticed he was kneeling next to her, and slowly she brought her tear-ridden eyes to match his.
“I’m sorry. I am so sorry,” he said quietly. “I’ve really ruined everything.”
Too late.
“I’m really sorry. I never meant for it to be this way.”
You don’t.
“Jessica,”
You don’t. No. You don’t know. You don’t… Oh, God, I do. I do. I love you. Too late. A light. A star. A diamond.
“will you marry—”
You…love…
“me?”