text: I’m watching him over the rim of a glass of red wine. *Gosling-handsome*, I think to myself as the rich rioja slides down my throat and esophagus before resting at the bottom of my stomach. I should have eaten first, now I’ll get tipsy after my first glass. I’m sitting at a small round table that is covered in a white cloth. At the center is a tall, black vase with a long-stalked flower. A daisy of some sort - Oxeye maybe? I’m no expert on flowers, but it’s beautiful in its simplicity. In front of me, next to the glasses of wine and water and the small wine bottle, a delicately folded napkin is accompanied by lean, modern cutlery. When I arrived, the table was set for two, but Gosling quickly and subtly whisked away the second plate and cutlery after I mumbled that I am here alone. My eyes are drawn to the Gosling-waiter fluttering between the tables, and his eyes meet mine for a second. He raises his eyebrows as if asking if I want something, but I quickly shake my head and look down with a little smile on my lips. Am I flirting with a stranger? That’s insane. I almost giggle at the thought, but I mostly blush. I take a big sip of the wine, letting it do its job, while I sink into the chair. Me. Alone. Enjoying wine. A tingling sensation in my neck. It feels good. *Maybe I shouldn’t tell Stephen*. The tingle is replaced by a rigid, sharp feeling of anxiety, as I straighten up at the thought. Maybe when he asks about my visit to aunt Eden, I’ll just make up a story (watching TV, knitting, going through family albums - safe stuff). *No!* I will not. I have made up my mind, and I will look into his eyes and tell him I didn’t go. I went to a restaurant instead. It will be better that way. In the long run. A bowl of soup appears in front of me and makes me flinch. “Th-thanks!” I stutter as I try to regain posture. “Oh, I’m sorry, did I scare you?” He sounds worried and amused at the same time. “You looked like you were miles away.” I manage to mumble something reassuring and hunch over my miso soup, effectively blocking him from any further contact. I quickly take a spoonful of soup, and involuntarily moan as a searing hot piece of tofu wrecks my taste buds at the back of my tongue, before continuing its carnage down my esophagus on its journey to the red wine. Looking around I'm relieved to discover that Gosling is out of earshot. I continue glancing over at him while I eat the rest of my soup, more carefully this time. What will Stephen think when I tell him, I wonder. Me, alone, in a restaurant? He will laugh, surely, and shake his head and snort at the thought. He won’t believe it at first, but when he does, his eyes will fill with horror and anger. The questions that will fill his mind are going to be down the line of “Is the bitch cheating on me?”, “Is this little lowlife whore *leaving* me?”, and next he will punch me. Hard. Hard enough to make me fall over. Then he will kick me. My stomach, my back, my head. After that, I don’t know. But I know it’s not good. He *did* warn me: no funny ideas. Here he is again, Gosling, carrying a plate of yellow pickled ginger, green wasabi cream and red and orange pieces of sushi, draped over the white lumps of rice, just big enough to fill my mouth. Somehow my soup bowl has disappeared, and he’s now placing the plate in front of me, before pouring a bit of soy sauce into a tiny glass bowl. A set of chopsticks has magically appeared on top of a fresh napkin. “Thank you,” I say, more relaxed this time, but I make sure not to look at him. His hand grazes my underarm as he pulls it back, and I feel myself stiffening. *It was just a coincidence, don’t worry about it*, my mind insists, but my body is on the verge of getting up from the chair and running out of the restaurant. I force myself to sit tight. Calming my breath, I look up to send him a smile of gratitude, but he’s already gone, heading over to a couple at another table. My hands are shaking as I pour myself another glass of wine and mix a little wasabi in the soy sauce. It feels like a miracle that I don’t spill anything. Encouraged, I pick up a piece of ginger with my fingers, smirking at the thought of how Stephen would frown at this act. I stick my tongue out (not too far) and place the ginger slice on it. Chewing slowly, the sour, strong taste feels cleansing, and I feel much calmer as I reach for the chopsticks and use them to bring the first of eight tasty treasures to my mouth, only slightly delayed by a detour into the soy sauce mix. *It’s the best I have ever tasted. It’s the best I will ever taste.* Stephen has taken me to restaurants 19 times, once for each year we have been married, always on our wedding day. But never to a sushi restaurant, just safe, cheap diners with “normal food”. He says “normal food” while snorting at the thought of anything expensive or exotic. My eyes swipe over Gosling again. He’s a few years older than Norah, but no more than 25. Maybe they know each other? *I can’t believe she’s 19 years old already.* Her new apartment is on the other side of the town. Stephen bought it for her for her birthday. He has been spoiling her her whole life. When she was born, he took control of everything, even insisted on feeding her, leaving me to pump breast milk and making formula when I couldn’t anymore. I don’t feel as connected to her as I suspect other mothers do, but he was so fantastic with her that I made my peace with it. That too. I pour the rest of the wine and, as I drink, I can sense the heat of it rising to my cheeks. I will enjoy this experience to the max. Three pieces of nigiri are still left on my plate and I tremble in excitement at the thought of eating them. Devouring them. Feeling how the taste and texture will fill me with happiness from the tip of my toes to the top of my head. I’m entitled to feel happy for a little while. I am! This *is* after all, my very last meal.