I’ve had more than nine months of success in avoiding “our place”. It hadn’t been easy either. My drive to work has been extended by ten minutes since I now take Airways to Union instead of the more convenient route on Central. I’ve given up my caramel macchiatos and café americanos just so that I won’t have to answer any difficult questions about you. I’ve even extended my daily run by two miles, down Southern, past the railroad tracks; you know I hate even driving down there.
But today, Zoe drove. It’s been so long and so routine, this avoidance game that I do, that it didn’t even occur to me to mention or suggest an alternative. Before I could protest, she took the common sense route down Central.
And there it was . . . our table.
Empty, abandoned . . . neglected. Or perhaps, the table, like me, was just waiting.
Angelyn's Crimes of Passion 