Table for Two

My restaurant booking called to confirm. I'd forgotten I ever made it.

Not me, actually. Jake. The one he booked for my birthday. A tiny Italian place on the high street that I'd mentioned once, six months ago, in passing. "Table for two, 8 PM, under the name Jake."

We broke up in September. My birthday was in November. I'd assumed the reservation was long gone. Dead like everything else.

My phone rang at 3 PM. A woman with a soft voice. "Hi, just confirming your booking tonight? Table for two?"

"Oh, no. I think that's a mistake. He... we're not..."

"The gentleman said to keep it, actually. He said you'd come."

I didn't want to go. I really didn't. But I put on the dress. The one with the tiny buttons. My feet walked me there before my brain voted.

I arrived at eight. The hostess smiled as if she knew me. She led me to a table by the window. Candle. Flowers. Two menus. One chair empty.

I sat. I waited. A minute. Five. Ten. My heart sank.

Then the waiter appeared with a small plate. A slice of tiramisu with a single lit candle.

"From Jake," he said. "He called ahead. He said, 'Don't let her sit alone. And dessert's on me.'"

I looked at the empty chair.

He'd booked a table for two.

And never planned to be the second person.