Dinner sits cold, untouched, and a phone shines brightly with a phone call going unanswered.
Another night too late, another night still alone. The wine is no longer cold but still she sips it and stares out the window, into the dark night lit with street lights.
Another call comes immediately after and she sits in the silence, her finger gently caressing the foot of the glass half-empty with room temperature wine that would have been better earlier. Dinner would have been better earlier, she thinks. He would have been better earlier, too.
Messages flood in and she catches the words “I’m sorry” and “Something came up” and she shakes her head. The wine is gone in one quick gulp and she stands and throws everything away. She’s not even hungry anymore and it smells like another one of his fuck-ups.
She makes work of the kitchen quickly and manages to keep her nice dress clean. She hangs it up in the back of his closet and takes her other clothes out of it. It takes two suitcases and an overnight bag for her to be in the car, her eyes as dry at the Savannah and her heart as empty at the wine glass sitting on the counter.
There was no note, just the dress hanging up to let him know she had gone. Too many chances, too many lonely dinners, too many apologies that amounted up to nothing.
She had nothing more to give.