I walked down the road and passed a high-end restaurant, warm amber light spilling through its floor-to-ceiling windows.
Without meaning to, I glanced inside. Then I stopped as if I had been nailed to the ground.
Damian and that woman were seated by the window. She was the one who had worn my wedding dress earlier that day.
A candle and a bottle of red wine sat on the table between them. Damian was cutting his steak into small pieces before pushing the plate toward her.
She laughed and said something.
The corner of Damian's mouth lifted, barely.
He used to cut steak for me the same way.
Back in that rented studio, he could not afford steak, so he used pork chops instead. The cuts were crooked, each piece a different size, but he carefully trimmed away every strip of gristle and put
