Waiters who seemed trained to appear precisely when your glass was almost empty.
We were seated near the windows.
For twenty minutes, we almost looked normal.
That was the strangest part.
We talked about food.
Work.
A ridiculous story involving Mark.
For brief moments, muscle memory took over.
Rachel laughed.
I smiled.
I could almost imagine staying inside the old version of us.
Then Rachel reached across the table and took my hand.
That surprised me.
"You've been really strange this week."
I said nothing.
"I don't know what's happening with you."
Her thumb moved across my knuckles.
"But I'm glad we're here."
That nearly broke my resolve.
Not because it was manipulative.
Because I believed she meant it.
That was the complication I had resisted all week.
Human beings can be sincere and selfish at the same time.
Rachel might genuinely be glad to celebrate our anniversary.
She might genuinely care for me.
And she might also believe I was convenient enough to keep despite not knowing whether she loved me.
Both things could be true.
I slowly pulled my hand away.
"I've learned a lot this week."
Rachel tilted her head.
"About what?"
"Us."
Her smile weakened.
"What does that mean?"
"I'll explain after your gift."
Almost instantly, tension left her face.
Her smile returned.
"You are such an ass."
"Wait until you see it."
She laughed.
I did not.
We ate.
Dessert arrived.
Chocolate mousse.
Exactly the one she wanted.
The anniversary gift she bought me turned out to be a leather camera strap.
A nice one.
She had purchased it that afternoon.
I knew because the receipt was accidentally left inside the store bag.
I did not mention it.
After dessert plates disappeared, Rachel waited perhaps thirty seconds.
Then:
"Okay."
I looked at her.
"What?"
She raised her eyebrows.
"Where is it?"
"Where's what?"
"My gift."
"You really can't wait."
"No."
"I've noticed."
I reached beside my chair.
Pulled out the black folder.
Placed it on the table.
Rachel stared.
"That's for me?"
"Happy anniversary."
She took it slowly.
"What is this?"
"A vacation package?"
"Something like that."
She smiled uncertainly.
"You're weird."
"Open it."
She did.
The first page faced her.
SUBSCRIPTION CANCELED.
Her eyes stopped.
She looked at me.
"What?"
"Keep going."
A nervous laugh.
"Is this some joke?"
"Keep reading."
She turned the page.
Then another.
Her smile vanished.
The temporary apartment agreement.
Financial documents.
Daniel's card.
The proposed separation checklist.
Her eyes moved faster.
Then slower.
She returned to the first page.
"What the hell is this?"
"Your gift."
"Is this divorce paperwork?"
"Not yet."
"Then what?"