🧂

*not realted to prompt*

“Can you pass the salt?” Michella asked through gritted teeth.

“Fine.” Eric replied and shoved the salt bottle over harder than he needed to.

They ate in silence, the restaurant around them bubbling with conversation and clanging for forks on plates. Hundreds of couples smiled and laughed while sharing steaks and salads brought over by polite waiters. All except Eric and Michella.  

Michella shook the salt onto her quinoa tabbouleh and angrily stabbed at it with her spoon. Her face was as red as the rouge lipstick lathered on earlier and steam seemed to be shooting out of her ears. Compressed anger was never a look she could pull off. 

Eric stared out the window of their usual booth as cars and buses zoomed through the downtown Toronto skyline. He didn’t touch the skillet steak in front of him, too preoccupied by the argument raging inside his head. 

“My mother called today,” Michella said after several minutes of silence. 

“Oh, is that so?” Eric wondered in a frustrated tone. Such a Michella Move to ignore the elephant in the room, even when it was repeatedly kicking her in the shin. It was even more of a Michella Move for her to bring up her mother. 

“Yeah, she was going on about the taxes and Justin Truedu's hair and when we’re going to have grandkids.” Michella didn’t look up from her plate as she told him. Another classic Michella Move. Never watching the chaos she creates. 

“Great, that’s what we need,” snapped Eric, slamming his knife and fork on the table. “Your mom nagging us about grandkids.” 

“Well, it’s been six years!” Michella slammed her spoon on the table too. “You can’t blame her for wondering.”

“Fine, but it’s the last thing we should be talking about,” Eric argued. 

“Okay,” Michella took a long sip of her wine, draining the glass. She motioned for a passing waiter to refill and drained it again before turning her attention back to him. “What should we talk about? Maybe how we’re the only couple here that isn’t having a nice time??” 

As if on cue a pop of a champagne bottle and cheers came over from the other side of the restaurant. A young man was on one knee in front of a smiling woman, clearly proposing. The woman jumped up and down and slipped the ring onto her finger. They started hugging and kissing and a loud round of applause rang through the room. 

Eric turned his focus back to his food, poking his steak half-heartedly. He remembered when that was him. A chessy, lovesick, hopeless romantic who thought he found the one. 

Now everyone was wondering what happened to the “perfect couple.” Where are the love notes? Roses? Little chocolate hearts? Smiles and laughter? Secret kisses in crowded rooms? 

Eric didn’t know. 

“They look so . . . in love.” Michella commented as everyone swarmed around the newly engaged. 

 “Yeah, they do.” 

 “We should be like them.” 

 Eric glanced up at her, perplexed. “What?” 

 “I guess that's what we get, for coming here on today of all days.” 

Her large grey eyes stared at the love birds around them, their smiles radiating happiness only brought by finding the missing piece in their lives. 

“Valentine’s day?” Eric asked. “Yeah, but it’s not like we had a choice. It’s our anniversary. And this is our favourite spot.” 

Michella's eyes rolled so hard Eric thought he was talking to his younger sister, Isabelle, again.“So, this is your fault.” 

 “Excuse me?” 

 “If you hadn’t been a totally cheesy and pushed for the wedding on Valentine’s Day, we could’ve avoided all this stupid lovey-dovey crap!” 

Eric was stunned. He had never seen Michella act this way. “I thought you liked having it on Valentine’s Day!” 

“I never ever said that!” Michella said, throwing her hands in the air. Behind her someone climbed onto a chair and made a toast to a couple standing beside them. More cheers rang through the air and with every “Woo hoo” Eric’s stomach sank lower and lower, until it felt like it was in his feet. 

 “You should’ve,” He snapped back. “When we could’ve actually done something about it.” 

“I was just happy that I was marrying you!” 

“What, so you're not happy being now?” 

As soon as the words left his mouth Eric regretted it. The deep dark part of his heart had been wondering for months, but he hadn’t acknowledged it.

It was one of those times where his brain lets his heart take the wheel. Pure truthful thoughts and feelings taking shape as words and heading off into the world, not caring how many masterpieces they tore or palaces they collapsed. Even if they were ones that took years of sacrifices and hardships to create. 

The corners of Michella’s eyes started to fill with water. A few droplets escaped and slid down her face, leaving a trail of mascara. “I . . . I don’t know.” 

Eric tore a hand through his wild locks. “How do you not know? We should be in love and happy like everyone else!” He said louder than he should have. Some heads glanced their way but turned right back to their conversations. 

“Well sorry for not knowing what to think!” Michella shouted. “We can’t know everything like you!” 

Now everyone was staring at them. Eric didn’t notice, though. Michella and him seemed to be surrounded by their own walls, the rest of the world blocked out. It was him and her, pointing their weapons at each other's hearts, ready to fight for their lives. Only one could come out as the winner. 

“Like you're so perfect!” He shouted back. “You can’t commit to anything, even our marriage!” 

Around and around, they went, taking jabs and blows at the other's pride, slashing at old wounds that they helped each other heal. Pasts were brought up and choices ridiculed. Fingers pointed and blame was thrown wildly. 

The restaurant was silent as they watched the vicious battle. No one dared to intervene, not wanting to be the victim of the next stab. 

After what felt like forever, Eric and Michella stopped, breathless, finally running out of insults and accusations to hurl. They glared daggers as they sunk back into their chairs, silent, not yet grasping the truth of their battle and what needed to come next. 

By the time dessert came around and was set in front of them, they had both come to the inedible. 

“We . . . we aren’t happy anymore” Michella finally voiced. “We aren’t the same, are we?” She softly whispered the sentences, trying to ease the weight and volume, but they still fell like heavy stones in Eric’s heart.     

Eric looked down at his raspberry cheesecake in defeat. “Yeah, we aren’t.” 

A suffocating silence followed. 

“I - I really did love you,” Eric choked. “That-that wasn’t fake. It was all worth it. All of it.” 

Michella swallowed and tears raced down her cheeks, seeing who could reach the bottom of her chin first. She tried to wipe them away with the sleeve of her dress, but they kept coming. “I know, I know.” 

“So, this is it, I guess” A drop of water hit the tablecloth. Eric hadn’t realised he was crying, too. 

“Yeah, it is.” 

Eric let out a deep breath. A deep ache began to form in his chest. It was the type of achee you got when everything that was cracking finally crumbles. You’re then left choking on dust in the debris, standing in the aftermath of something once so beautiful and precious, not sure if you should hold on to the fallen pieces. 

The waiter came back and gave them the check and took their plates. Eric paid. Him and Michella put their coats on and made their way to the door. 

As they walked out into the cool Toronto evening air, Eric glanced back over his shoulder at they’re once usual booth where his and Michella’s past self sat, laughing, and talking. He smiled at the memories, but then frowned. 

This was the end. 

The real end.

No going back from that. 

He hesitated in the doorway, tempted to run back and stay in the ruins and hold on forever to those memories. But like Notre Dame, sometimes things were meant to fall. Even if they tried to fix it and rebuild, it would never be the same.   

Eric sighed and followed Michella out the door, stepping into the cold Toronto air, and they walked down the block, to the subway.