Done.

“This is it, I mean it. I can’t do it anymore. I deserve to be happy.”

“Okay.” His eyes stayed glued to the edge of his plate.

“I mean, you never really cared about me, did you? It was convenient, that’s all. You never loved me.”

“Sam, please. I said ok. You’re right, you should be happy.”

It was silent for a long time. The waiter glided over, then seemed to think better of it and cut a hard right, back towards the kitchen. The restaurant was quiet, despite it being a Saturday. It was a place you had come to often, just down the road from your apartment. A nice-enough restaurant. If you squinted you could imagine you were in quite an upscale place – the décor was gold and blue – gaudy but comforting. The sort of place you’d go with your grandparents as a child, filled with that subtle, background belief that it was your destiny to be a great success, that adulthood was quite simple really, but for some reason the grown-ups made it all seem very complicated.

You give a audible sigh and glare across the table. Mark is tracing lazy crop circles in what’s left of his risotto. At least he’s not on his phone. How could it have been three years already? You are overwhelmed with the urge to scream. To run out of the room and never look back. To start living your life already! This relationship has been nothing but a wet blanket over the past 3 years, and you want them back, damn it. You cast your eyes around, looking for the waiter. The check. To get out of here.

The waiter catches your look and signals that he’ll be right over. You turn back to the table and catch Mark’s eyes on you. Are they wet? It’s hard to tell in the candlelight. He gives a small, almost imperceptible shrug and a slight smile. “It was fun,” he says. Was it? Only as much fun as any two people would have had in each other’s company. When you think about it - really think about it – and you try not to, honestly – Mark is the completely wrong sort of person for you. He’s wholly without passion – seemingly trying to gray-out the luminescent aspects of life. Your opposite. He seems to thrive in the banal, the routine. You crave adventure and excitement. You just can’t wait to break free from this and start over.

The check arrives and you both reach for it, but he pulls his hand back and lets you get it. Fair enough, whatever ends this quickly. The waiter whisks your card away and you’re left waiting again. You dump the remainder of the wine bottle into your glass. Screw politeness. One gulp and it’s gone. You pull your coat around your shoulders and Mark does the same. So close now. Almost out of here.

The collar of his coat pushes up on the overgrown hair at the back of his neck, and you feel a small pang of guilt that you never did trim that for him, as you said you would. Who would do it now?

“You should make an appointment with the barber to have your hair trimmed,” you blurt out.

“Oh, yeah.” He says, “I will.”

He won’t make an appointment. Whatever, it’s his hair, you think. You have your own life to get back to, to get started on.

You look back across the table and feel your face soften. He looks smaller, like he’s shrunken into himself a bit. “I can cut it for you if you’d like,” you say.

“It’s ok, thanks though.”

That annoys you. You know he won’t take care of it, and he’s already starting to look pretty rough, if you’re honest.

“I mean, if you did care about me, if you gave a shit, that would be different,” you hear yourself say.

“Huh?”

“We could try to make it work, I mean if you cared about me.”

“Sam, it’s fine. I get it. I think you should make yourself happy.”

Fine, good. This is what you wanted. Where was that waiter, anyway? Time to get out of here. As you cast your eyes around the place, the house lights dim. It’s that sultry, smokey part of the night – the post-dinner, warm wine in your belly part. The hour of the night that coos of tangled limbs, just under its breath.

“I’ll cut your hair for you, I did say I would do it,” you say.

“It’s really fine, Sam, I’ll take care of it.”

The waiter finally returns with the check and you sign it. Mark is already on his feet, heading for the door.

You step out into the sharp winter air and pull your coat tighter around yourself. “Okay,” he says. “Take care of yourself. It’s cold, so I’m going to head out.” He’s already turning on his heel and moving towards his car.

“Mark?” you shout after him.

“What? I’m cold, Sam. It’s over. Can we just go home?”

“Come to my house for a drink? One drink? I have a nice bottle of wine.” What are you saying? Let him go – this was what you wanted. You’ve ached to be free of him for almost as long as you’ve been together.

“Sam, I’m done talking. I’m sorry. I’m just tired.”

“Please – I can cut your hair and then we can go our separate ways. I said I’d do it for you, I’ll feel bad if I don’t. One drink and I’ll cut your hair.”

He does look tired, and a little annoyed. You move towards him. “Please come for one drink.”

“Sam, you said yourself you don’t want me. You want to move on, and that’s cool. So what’s the point?”

You move in close enough to feel his hot breath on your face, then reach out and grab his coat pockets, pulling his hips into yours. Tilting your face towards his, you whisper into his mouth, “One night. No strings attached.” Then you brush your lips against his and give a little tug on his arm. He takes a step with you, then another. You feel victorious. He’s coming to your house. He wants to spend this dusky, sexy, wine-soaked evening with you.

The two of you walk towards your apartment. The wine in your belly has already turned to lead. You unlock the door and let Mark climb the stairs before you.