Eleanor:
Every Tuesday they come in. Him and her, to the same little table, in the same little town, me following their same boring life. Well, not exactly boring. It’s far more interesting than my own. After letting the pair arrange themselves in the “seat yourself” section, I trot over.
“Good evening to my favorite couple. How are you guys tonight?”
Usually their response includes a grin from him, a loving look from her and some light-hearted mutterings that I nod and smile to. Tonight, that is not the story.
The woman’s eyes well up with tears, and the man looks away, grunting. A silence ensues, which I break by slapping down some menus a little more forcefully than I normally would. I force my teeth out of their grimace and rattle off tonight’s specials, nod, and scurry away before the situation could get any more awkward.
From behind the hostess stand and register, I keep an eye on my couple by pretending to calculate tips, or something that my boss would believe. Looks of pain are clearly visible on both of their faces. I’m so thrown by the difference between this and their usual peppy demeanor that I can’t focus on anything else, which leads me to successfully shatter a glass after the woman refuses to hold his hand. They ALWAYS hold hands.
A few minutes pass, and I clean up the shards that have sprinkled themselves across the dark floor like teardrops. Shaking my head in a vain attempt to clear it, I bring the two their usual drinks-- the house Chardonnay for her and a stereotypical man beer for him.
“Here you go,”
I say, my cheeks aching in protest of my ridiculous smile. He nods, and she presses her lips together. I try to ignore it and do my job.
“Have you two decided what you’d like tonight?”
“Umm, she’ll have the, uh... “
“Special?” I force, since he is lost in his wife’s face, and his train of thought gone.
He nods absentmindedly, and doesn’t look at me.
“Wonderful, the special for both of you. I’ll get that out shortly, alright?”
I stalk back to the kitchen, wondering what the hell is going on with them.

Max:
The kitchen is a sweaty, stuffy, smelly sort of place. I loathe it. I shuffle around the tiny space, whipping up “gourmet” cuisine, washing mountains of dishes and cursing my life under my breath. “Hell,” I mutter as I drop an egg onto the greasy floor. It breaks, sending shards of white in every direction, a big glop of a mess left for me to clean up. As I haul myself back up, two small shoes appear a few inches away from my face.
“Hi there, Eleanor,” I grumble, wincing as my back resists my motion to stand.
“Hi Max,” she replies, always with a smile in her voice.
I finally pull myself upright and meet her gaze. Her face falls.
“Wha’s wrong?” I ask, wiping my hands onto the fraying towel at my belt.
“You know that one cute couple we have, they come in Tuesdays, always happy?”
“Yeah,” I nod, wondering where she is going with this.
“Well, something’s wrong. They’re acting really funny. Something is wrong, and I dunno what…” she trails off, seeming really worried about the whole situation. I shake my head.
“They probably jus’ fought, tha’s all, Ellie. Everybody does. Nothin’ to worry abou’.”
She shakes her head.
“Ellie, it’s alrigh’,”
She shakes her head again.
“Fine. Let’s go see, shall we?”
She nods this time.
I take her arm, taking care to not leave any grease spots on her shirt, and lead her out of the dank kitchen. We come up behind the hostess stand and stop. I immediately recognize the couple she was referring to, they are regulars, and very distinctive. Always kind to the staff, unlike most. Ellie’s right-- something does seem off. They sit in troubled silence, limp, defeated, glancing up at each other every so often, but quickly burying themselves back into toying with their drinks.
“Why don’ you bring them a nice, free dessert tonigh’? Folks usually perk righ’ up abou’ then, huh?”
She nods, transfixed on the pair, but they seem so entranced in themselves that they take no notice. I pat her shoulder, and lug my body back into the kitchen to face the disgusting piles of pots, pans, and my own self-pity.

Lucas:
My life has gone to hell.
I’m sitting in my favorite restaurant, with my favorite beer and my beautiful wife who despises me. She sits, shaking slightly, clutching her empty wine glass, and refusing to look me in the eyes.
“Penny,”
No response.
“Please, Penny, say something.”
Silence.
“Penny, honey, I love you, please, just respond to me. What can I do?”
She scoots her chair a little further back from the table and wraps her arms around herself. She draws in a big breath.
“Lucas. I can’t. I can’t forgive myself, or you.”
It’s as if she’d slapped me. I recoil, almost knocking my beer from the table, but catch it as it teeters.
“Penny--” I start, but that funny little waitress has trotted over and presents us with heaping plates of food.
“Here you go!” she says cheerily, her fake smile making me cringe.
“Will that be all for you?”
“Yes, thank you.” I reply shortly, looking only at my wife. She nods and heads off, trying to discreetly glance over her shoulder and failing when I stare her down. She disappears into the kitchen with an audible sigh.
“Even the waitstaff know something’s up. Please, talk to me,” I beg again.
“Fine.” She’s getting angry now, but at least it’ll get her to speak to me.
“I hate this.” she says. “I hate this, I hate this place, I hate that I can’t have a kid, and I hate you, for what you did. After we tried so hard. I hate you!”
I shrink away from her barrage. Shame floods my face, turning it crimson.
“You know that all I ever wanted was to have a family, and when I couldn’t, and you got bored, you gave up and went to someone else, you bastard!”
She suddenly gets very quiet.
“It was all I wanted. And you destroyed that. And it can never be fixed.”
She looks at her plate, and holds her wine glass so tightly that her knuckles turn white.
“It’s done. We’re done. What you did is unforgivable.”
By this time, the same dorky, concerned waitress is back at her hostess stand, looking anxiously over. She holds a piece of pie on a plate, ice cream melting and dripping off the side without her notice. Turning, she starts walking over.
“Penny,” I plead.
“No,” she says, eerily quiet, a look of pure revulsion on her lovely face.
“Just, no.”
The wine glass shatters in her grip, spraying both of us with tiny bits of crystal.

Penny:
I rise from my chair, shaking my arm slightly to rid it of broken glass. My husband, my loathful, traitorous, cheating snake of a husband reaches for me, and I slam the stem of the glass onto the table, sending more shards his way.
“No…” I seethe, and letting the tears flow freely down my reddening cheeks, I make to leave the restaurant, catching the stare of some man leaning against the kitchen door, arms crossed.
The kind little waitress hops over before I can make it out the door.
“Here,” she says. “Take this,”
She hands me a smooth, white plate, its circle unbroken, and on it is a piece of pie. It sits in a well of what is presumably melted vanilla ice cream, slightly soggy, bits flaking off. It’s absolutely perfect.
“Thank you,” I smile at her, and push open the door to the place, letting in a gust of heavy, spring air.
I glance back at my husband, slouched in his chair, looking defeated, surrounded by millions of sparkling shards. There are droplets on his face.
“I’m sorry about the glass,” I offer as an apology.
“It’s alright,” she replies, pushing her hair back behind her ears. “I understand.”
“See you Tuesday,” I respond, letting the breeze shut the door behind me.